


Cruel World

by followthefreedomtrail



Series: All Roads Lead to You [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kidnapping, Kinda, Moments of Fluff But Mostly Angst, Political Alliances, Pre-Relationship, Trust Issues, its complicated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2019-10-08 15:04:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 49,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17388608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/followthefreedomtrail/pseuds/followthefreedomtrail
Summary: Danse and Nora's relationship fell apart years ago but when they both end up in the Commonwealth waging war against the Institute, their paths cross again.Time can't heal everything but they'll always have a soft spot for each other.





	1. Everything, Forgotten

**Author's Note:**

> I totally chose the title because Cruel World by Phantogram gives me all the nuclear apocalypse vibes so if you need mood music, give it a listen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nora calls in a favor.

**February 1, 2288**

The fire crackled and spit as the broken down chair was consumed.

Cold rarely enveloped the Commonwealth since the bombs dropped and when it did, it was a welcome interruption from the otherwise sweltering climate. Smoke crawled into the air, alerting anything nearby to their presence but Paladin Danse had deemed the fire acceptable. Certainly it made them vulnerable, he felt, but they had travelled far enough north that he didn’t expect anything to disturb them that night and he couldn't recall the last time flames had looked inviting instead of spilling from a molotov on the battlefield.

He glanced at Nate, on his side in his sleeping bag snoring peacefully.

Danse always offered to take first watch. It wasn’t that he didn’t sleep; he sure as hell tried. He could usually manage short spurts of rest each night but nothing more. He'd mistakenly mentioned it to Haylen once and she'd diagnosed battle fatigue. The label meant everything to her and to Cade but nothing to him. If it wasn't Danse on the field, it would just be someone else and as far as he was concerned, he'd already allowed too much harm to come to his brothers and sisters. It was his atonement. His duty. It cost him immensely; he was regularly plagued by a dull throb in his skull and he'd suffered his share of panic attacks. He knew his mental health was in poor shape but still refused to take any time off to rectify it. The Brotherhood was his only escape: cleansing the Commonwealth, modding weapons, and tinkering with his power armor. He didn’t have to dwell on what he’d lost when he was immersed in work.

The extent of his exertion had worked itself into him in the form of lines and scars that traversed the planes of his face. Every hour he spent overworked and straining carved deeper into him until he was losing whole parts of himself and becoming solely a soldier, the only thing that mattered to him. Danse was nothing if not disciplined and he'd be damned if he was going to let up now.

He pulled off his hood and ran his fingers through the thick, greasy hair underneath. They were only a few days away from the airport now and he fantasized about the opportunity to shower. The soldiers had set up near a collapsed barn, the roof having caved in enough to provide splintered planks to fuel their fire, and Danse stood in front of it now, scanning the horizon for hostiles. When he was satisfied that they were alone, he sat on the in-tact stool he’d pulled from the wreckage of the building, allowing himself to become mesmerized by the orange glow of the blaze in front of him.

His mind wandered and he was completely unaware of the passing of time. It could’ve been minutes or hours before she was suddenly next to him, armed and aiming.

“Don’t move. Drop your weapon.”

His jaw clenched at her voice, that _fucking_ voice.

Cold. Imposing. Unexpected. Not only was ever seeing her again a possibility he’d completely written off but the likelihood of Nora surviving in the wasteland, he thought, was slim to none. Not for 10 years. He tried to imagine her soft, feminine features twisted into a threatening scowl but it wasn’t intimidating in the slightest. No, it wasn’t a stretch to have predicted she’d be chewed up and spit out by this world.

Only clearly he’d been wrong. From his peripheral, he could just make out her tall figure, arms stretched straight in front of her and pistol in hand. He frowned. Last time he’d seen her, it had been him behind the gun. Having the control ripped out from under him was not something he was used to and it infuriated him. _She_ infuriated him.

He flipped his palms up in surrender and leaned to place his laser rifle gently on the ground at his feet.

She kept her pistol ready and pointedbetween his eyes while she slowly approached him and took it.

“Sorry,” she muttered, ripping the fusion cell from the weapon and tossing both behind her. “I like to think you wouldn’t shoot me but-well, last time I saw you, you nearly did.”

He finally made eye contact with Nora. Her hair was messily piled onto her head, something he’d never seen on her before. The same silver hoops and the same bandana over her lower face as their last meeting and likely every day in between; a signature of hers. She was dressed entirely in black and besides her gun, a backpack was her only other visible possession.

She holstered her gun and took a few slow steps toward him. When she was sure he wasn’t going to fight her approach, she sat on his armored thigh and pulled her bandana down, revealing her full face. Her features were more angular now and it gave her a fierceness, an edge that he hadn’t accounted for. She examined him, eyes creasing slightly in displeasure. “You don’t sleep much, do you?”

He glowered at her. He didn’t like her evaluating him and even less so liked how his body warmed at her contact even through all the metal that encased him and how the fire illuminated the right half of her face. “That’s none of your concern.” Frustration at her audacity overwhelmed him and he tacked on, “And don’t sit on my leg.”

“Would you rather I sit somewhere else?” Her fingers reached up to lightly caress his jaw and he felt his cheeks redden at the suggestion. She was bold, he remembered that much, and it grated his nerves. The corner of her mouth twitched and her face softened as she registered his blush. “You’ll never know how comforting it is that some things never change,” she said quietly, almost to herself.

She dropped her hand and walked a few feet away from him, giving him the space he requested. She rubbed her hands over the fire and took a seat on the ground next to its warmth. He watched her, waiting for an explanation.

Her eyes wandered to the paint on his power armor, tracing each brush stroke. “Paladin, hmmm? Congratulations.”

He was unnerved at how much she obviously knew about the Brotherhood. It felt like tug of war, this confrontation, and he was rapidly losing ground. He attempted a stoic expression but his eyes remained hardened and angry.

“I’m waiting for you to tell me I look good,” she finally smiled up at him. “More toned now. As it turns out, running around escorting synths is an insane calorie burner.”

He’d already noticed, of course. Her clothes were tight and he was always observant but he’d never admit as much, even to himself. “You have a lot of scars,” he noted, eyeing the particularly large pink streak under her left eye. “You should travel with a partner.”

She bristled at his words. “I do.”

“Well they aren't sufficient.”

Nora huffed. “It’s a shitty world but I’m still alive. He protects me just fine.”

It wasn’t that Danse had been fishing for the gender of her partner, the person she spent most of her time with if the Railroad was anything like the Brotherhood, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious. Still, when her words confirmed it was a man, he wasn’t prepared for the sharp pang that sliced through his heart. It shouldn't be so easy for her to do. Jealousy morphed into anger and he raised his voice. “Why are you here?”

She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, facing away from him and into the fire. “I need a meeting with Elder Maxson.”

“And why the hell would you think I’d give you that?”

She shot him an annoyed glance. “It’s mutually beneficial.”

He snorted. “Maxson won’t want to speak with you.”

“He will if you tell him I have information on the Institute.”

She could be bluffing. A ploy of some kind to infiltrate their organization. After all, the Railroad was small in comparison to the Brotherhood of Steel. How would they obtain anything Maxson didn't already have? “The... and how did you get that?” 

A sigh escaped her and she stood, wiping the dirt from her clothes. “Look, I could march up to the airport myself and demand a meeting. I might be shot on sight but I’ll do whatever I have to do to speak with Maxson. I figured this would all go smoother if you talked to him first. I know you’re close.”

“How do you know that?”

She smirked. “The Railroad has a lot of intel. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

He shook his head, metal fingers massaging the bridge of his nose.

She moved to his side, leaning against what was left of the barn. “This is worth the trouble, Danse. I promise.”

He didn’t move.

“I’ll find you in a week. Is that enough time for you to arrange something?”

Danse met her eyes, hesitant. “What kind of information do you have?”

Her teeth flashed in a victorious smile. “Only a lead on how to get into the Institute.”

“Dammit, Nora, a lead? That’s it?”

“You have something better?”

He took a deep breath, hating that she was right. “I’ll... I’ll talk to Maxson.”

Her hand fell to his shoulder. “Thank you. See you in a week, soldier." The pistol was in her hands again and she quickly scanned her surroundings before darting away, blending into the blackness.

*

**February 5, 2288**

Arthur Maxson poured two glasses of whiskey, his drink of choice, when Danse reported to the Elder’s quarters at 2200. He handed one to Danse and sat expectantly, curious as to the nature of their congregation.

Danse remained standing, staring at the amber liquid.

“Something on your mind, Paladin?”

Lowering himself into the nearest chair, he thought for a moment and swallowed the entirety of his drink in one gulp. Liquid courage. “Well, sir... this mission was unusual.”

Maxson cocked an eyebrow. “Nothing in your report indicated anything out of the ordinary.”

“I felt this was better discussed face to face.”

“Well what is it, Danse?”

He couldn’t quite arrange the words in the way he wanted, in a way that sounded favorable.  “I was approached by a woman while on assignment.” She'd cornered him, really, but it all sounded more innocent that way. 

“I really don’t need to know these types of things, Paladin. You’re allowed-“

“No, it’s not that,” Danse said quickly, blushing. “She... claimed to have a lead on the Institute.”

The Elder leaned forward, interest piqued. “Lead? What kind of lead?”

“A way to get in.”

Maxson rubbed his chin. “And why didn't she come to the airport?”

“She’s with the Railroad, sir. She expressed fear of her life being threatened.” Precisely the thing Danse had done nearly a year ago, he noted, when he'd found her transporting that synth on his morning run.

“The Railroad,” Maxson laughed as he topped Danse's glass off. “How the hell would the Railroad know anything?”

“She didn’t elaborate, sir.”

“Do you have reason to believe this to be credible?” he asked, intently searching Danse’s face. It was clear he trusted the Paladin and guilt kneaded his stomach into knots for the lie of omisson. Nora was years behind him now, an entire decade; what would it be worth to say something? She was as good as a stranger. Anything he'd known about her character, any endorsements Danse could offer the Elder about the woman might very well be its own lie anyway. His Nora was dead, buried in Rivet City a lifetime ago and replaced with a counterfeit, a synthetic version of the real thing.

“I’m not sure but it may be wise to meet with her and investigate further,” he said carefully. He did in fact believe Nora even if he didn’t trust her and he certainly didn’t want to miss a chance to gain the upper hand against the Institute, the entire reason they were in the Commonwealth in the first place.

Arthur nodded. “Very well. Can I assume you’ll arrange the meeting then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent. Dismissed, Paladin.”

A salute and Danse was leaving Arthur's room for the comfort of his own. He wasn’t sure how Nora planned to find him but he supposed holing up in the Prydwen would make it impossible. He spent the next few nights at the airport, sleeping or trying to sleep outside on his bedroll. It earned him a handful of odd looks.

*

**February 8, 2288**

Violent hands shook Danse into awareness. He sat up and out of pure reflex, his fist snapped forward defensively.

“Fuck!”

Nora.

She clutched her cheek, eyes wide. “God, what’s the matter with you?! I was just trying to wake you up. _Fuck_ , that hurt!”

He moved her hand from her face and surveyed the damage. It was already swelling. “I’m sorry. I can get you a stimpack.”

“You’d better. Why is it I always get punched around you?” she moved her jaw around to make sure it wasn’t broken. When she was satisfied, she sat beside him. “So what, do we have a meeting?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“In three days. The Boston Airport at noon.”

“Okay. Good."

He waited for her to leave but she just stared at him. He was squinting, trying to read her, but he could no longer decipher her expressions. She was a language he had lost all fluency in, a map without a legend. Not Nora, he confirmed. Just a replacement with all of her cunning beauty and none of her tender kindness.

“So are you gonna grab me that stimpack?” she prompted.

Of course. “Affirmative.” He rose and walked into the airport, quickly returning and removing the stimpack. Danse closed his fingers tightly around her jaw but before he could insert it into Nora's bruised skin, her hand pulled the stimpack from his grasp.

She flicked the needle before injecting herself, eyebrows drawn together in concentration. The swelling quickly dissipated and she handed him the empty syringe. “Well. I’ll see you in three days, soldier boy.”

He frowned, uncomfortable at her use of his affectionate nickname. “Affirmative.”

She sprinted away and Danse thought he could just make out someone waiting for her in the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts?
> 
> Tumblr: followthefreedomtrail9


	2. The Enemy of my Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nora and Maxson talk business.

**February 11, 2288**

It didn’t surprise Nora at all that the elder wasn't the first to greet them at the airport. Instead, when she’d arrived with Deacon and Desdemona flanking her, the trio had been roughly saluted by two knights in power armor and escorted to a vertibird.  
****

She nearly turned around and ran away. For all of her bravado, Nora couldn’t stomach the thought of being so high in the air–and above the ocean, at that. She’d never learned to swim. There’d never been a place with low enough radiation for her to practice. She tried not to imagine drowning but it came anyway: sinking into the blue, slowly and painfully sucking in more and more water until the world dimmed and her body sank, never to be found and leaving Shaun alone.

She put up a good fight but Deacon threw her over his shoulder and climbed behind the cockpit. Expletives flew from her mouth, as good a shot with words as with bullets, and she threatened free facial reconstruction. Desdemona rolled her eyes but her mouth twitched slightly in amusement.

The vertibird wobbled as it docked and Nora didn’t calm down until Deacon leapt out and set her feet on the Prydwen.

She gripped the railing, knuckles white. “If you ever do that again–” she growled.

“You’re fine, princess,” Deacon tousled her hair. “Thank me later.”

She would have narrowed her eyes if only she weren’t so distracted by the view from the Prydwen. _So far down..._

Another knight saluted them and announced he’d be escorting them to the Elder’s quarters. Desdemona and Deacon followed him up into the ship, Nora lagging slightly behind, hands trailing along the railing for support. When she was finally inside, no dark water looming below and nowhere to fall from, she leaned against the wall and steadied her breath.

Desdemona put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “When you’re ready, Nora.”

She nodded and closed her eyes. A few more breaths and she was straightening her spine and pulling her bandana to the bridge of her nose. “Okay. Let’s go.”

The knight led them up a ladder and then to Maxson’s door a few feet away. Nora cracked her hands, fully intent on commanding the room and taking charge of the meeting when she entered. The door opened to three men in uniform: two at a table, one heart-wrenchingly familiar, and one pouring drinks–always drinks with the soldier types. She assumed the latter to be the Elder so she stepped up to the table, gaze hard against him as she watched him close the bottle of whiskey.

He eyed her carefully. “Nora, is it?”

She gave a sharp nod. Her hand reached for his and she was sure to keep her grip firm when he clasped it. “Arthur.”

His first name had him glancing at his subordinates. “Please. Call me Maxson.”

“With all due respect, I’m not here as your underling  _or_ your enemy. I’d like to think that affords me some latitude... _Arthur._ ”

His nostrils flared. One hand reached up and she thought he might hit her. Instead, it forced her bandana down around her neck. “Then I expect the same. Have a seat,” he said through gritted teeth.

She scanned the room and noted Desdemona and Deacon had already sat, leaving a single open chair next to Danse. She took it reluctantly.

She supposed Danse wouldn’t have shared that they’d had an intimate relationship. It could only negatively affect his career, sleeping with the enemy, and she’d experienced first hand how much that meant to him. She sighed through her nose. Then it was probably circumstance that she was forced next to him and not out of some strategic negotiating tactic to throw her off.

It did anyway.

She didn’t acknowledge him but whether it was for his sake, to keep up his charade for his Elder, or for hers, she didn't know. She needed focus and control, not the aching in her chest that was budding now at the conflict of physical proximity and emotional distance. Nora cleared her throat of its tightness and introduced Deacon and Desdemona. Maxson followed with his men: Lancer-Captain Kells and Paladin Danse.

With the pleasantries finished, Nora jumped immediately into business. “I’ll be direct: we have something useful to you. I’m sure your paladin informed you we’ve discovered a promising lead in regards to the Institute. No one has ever been able to determine a way in. But we have reason to believe the Railroad is closer than ever to the answer.”

“That’s optimistic,” Arthur frowned. “Who is your source?”

“Without divulging too much, he’s a former Institute scientist.”

“And how did you find him?” Kells interjected.

Desdemona grunted. “You’re asking a lot of questions for people who haven’t offered us anything yet.”

“What are you asking for?” Arthur squinted at Nora and she knew he was asking her because he believed she was the leader. _Good._  The Brotherhood had to be kept in the dark about as much as possible. There was no guarantee that they wouldn’t turn on them after the Institute was destroyed and anything they learned now could be used against the Railroad in the future.

Nora flashed a smile. “To begin with... power armor.”

“Absolutely not,” Kells bellowed.

The Elder clasped his hands together, blue eyes cold and unflinching from her own earnest brown. “How many suits?”

“Two.”

“Let’s say hypothetically I grant your request. What are your other conditions?”

“Given how little we know currently about what breaking into the Institute entails, I can’t say. But we’d expect your full and willing cooperation with any related tasks,” Nora paused. “And we stay out of each other’s way. You look the other way when you see agents escorting synths and we don’t attack any Brotherhood entities.”

Arthur took a drink. “Those are hefty demands, Nora.”

“I’m certain the intel we’ll provide you will be more than fair compensation.”

He stared her down and the pressure of the atmosphere shifted, tightening the air in the room. Nora might as well have been immune. She tightened her muscles, refusing to shift an inch. There was a time in her life when she would've looked away under the weight of such intensity and she felt her natural response now fighting for dominance but body language was a tell she couldn't afford.

He turned away from her, hands behind his back. “Here’s what I expect: full disclosure on every piece of intel gathered. To ensure you remain honest, I’m assigning Paladin Danse to accompany you.”

Nora rubbed her temple. She finally dared a glance at Danse. He stared at the table, brows cinched in annoyance. “Yes, sir.”

“I expect my suits back. They’re a loan, not a gift,” Arthur continued. “And lastly... you’ve seen the Prydwen and I've invited you into my own personal quarters. I expect to know the location of the Railroad.”

Nora smirked. _He didn’t know._ “The Railroad doesn’t have access to the resources that the Brotherhood does or we wouldn’t be here asking for favors. What gives us our edge is our secrecy. We won’t be sharing our location.”

She knew he would accept her terms out of pure necessity but still he made a show of considering her offer for dignity's sake. Finally, he muttered, “Understandable, Nora, but we'll need a way to communicate. If you refuse to share where your headquarters are then I have to insist at least one of you three is on board the Prydwen at all times."

It was a lie. What he wanted was assurance they wouldn't bomb their precious blimp from the sky and holding one of their leaders hostage was as good a way as any. "We have a deal.”

Kells spoke up, preoccupied with the power armor. “What do you need the armor for?”

“The scientist we’re seeking is located somewhere in the glowing sea.”

Heavy silence smothered the room.

“That’s a suicide mission,” Danse said solemnly.

“With power armor and plenty of radiation protection, it should be easy enough for Nora. She’s made it in and back before,” Deacon leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head.

Nora blushed as the soldiers balked at her. That wasn’t exactly true; she’d gone _near_ the glowing sea and only to kill a particularly troublesome Yao Guai. It was unusually large and terrorized a settlement that she’d dropped a synth off at and she couldn’t just _leave_ _it_. She’d fired a few shots and they’d landed in its side. When it fled, she’d tracked the drops of blood until she’d found its den in an area thick with rads and nearly poisoned herself but she’d killed the beast. After five bags of Radaway, she began to feel like herself again but Deacon insisted on embellishing the tale, to her dismay, in the presence of their new allies.

“She sounds like a capable woman,” Arthur complemented her. “I’ll have a contract drawn up for us and Proctor Ingram will prepare your armor. In the meantime, I suggest you get some food in the mess and allow our medic, Knight-Captain Cade, to look you over. You’ll need to be at your best if the glowing sea is your target. I wouldn’t advise leaving today. A vertibird can drop you off at the perimeter of the sea tomorrow.”

Nora hadn’t planned on leaving so soon at all. “Arthur, we don’t even have a plan yet. We don’t want to rush this.”

“You’re saying you haven’t mapped his location yet?”

“About that,” Deacon rubbed the back of his neck.

“We don’t really have a location at all. We just know he’s... somewhere.” Nora bit the inside of her cheek.

Kells rose to his feet. “This is a mistake. The Railroad is worthless!”

Arthur closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “So how the hell do you expect to find him?”

The factions remained locked in the Elder’s quarters for hours, debating strategy and exchanging passionate insults. Maps were studied, routes were drawn, and fuses were short. By the time they’d come to agree on the least reckless plan of action, the sun had set over the Commonwealth and exhaustion was settling in, overcoming the heat that had filled the room for the better part of the day.

Arthur stared over Nora’s shoulder, inspecting the dark marks on his map indicating the path they’d agreed on.

“It’s never gonna be perfect,” she breathed, dissatisfied.

“I expect success. You’ll take our best suits and our best paladin.”

Nora huffed. She wanted to protest, to say she'd rather have anyone else, but the day had been so long and her eyelids objected to opening after every blink. She cursed internally.

Maxson had directed a knight to lead the Railroad agents to the mess hall. They expected the side glances they earned as they forced themselves to swallow the bland sustenance in front of them and were quick to retreat to the medbay when they’d finished their meal. Knight-Captain Cade thoroughly assessed each one of them, even probing about their sexual history.

“Any... inhuman partners?” he’d pressed.

“What, you mean like a Brotherhood soldier?” Deacon teased.

“Deacon,” Desdemona chided him. “That’s _inhumane._ I believe he said _inhuman._ ”

“Good catch, Dez. No, doc, I haven’t.”

The knight-captain rolled his eyes.

A small smile bubbled on Nora's lips as she stared at the floor. She couldn’t help but be amused and she was sure her friends weren’t poking fun at her but her chest tightened slightly. She chalked it up to being on the ship; it was confining and dark and she could not for the life of her understand anyone living there. She excused herself, having already been seen by Knight-Captain Cade, and climbed the ladder to the command deck, pace growing more and more frantic until she was finally in fresh air.

Except...

 _Right._ She felt her legs tremble and her hands flew to the rails. It was so much easier to pretend she wasn’t suspended in the air when she’d had four solid walls around her. She felt along the rail until she was on the other side of the ship and closed her eyes. It was a few moments before she felt somewhat stable and could look at the view of the city without her stomach plummeting and although her hands stayed locked in place, the cool metal against her skin patiently convinced her she was mostly safe.

“Everything alright?”

Danse’s voice made her jump. She had been too preoccupied confronting her phobia that she hadn’t seen when he’d approached her and she had no idea how long he’d been standing there. “Yes. Fine."

He moved to her side, keeping a cautious foot between them. He didn’t look at her, choosing to join her in surveying the city below. “I heard about your vertibird ride.”

“Great,” she sighed.

A gloved hand scratched at his cheek, failing to hide his smile. “If it helps, you should know no one’s ever fallen from the Prydwen.”

”It doesn’t but thanks.”

Nothing more was said as they learned to relax slightly in each other’s presence. They never let their guards down but if they were going to be taking on the glowing sea together, they needed to trust each other, however little they could manage. She turned her head to study his face and he stiffened as he sensed her gaze on him. When he met her eyes, his drained expression tugged at her. If she squinted, she could see the Danse of her youth, eager and dedicated and so, so beautiful, it could kill her. This Danse was battle weary and wise beyond his years; the kind of wisdom earned through deep suffering. It shattered her heart into a million pieces.

She raised an eyebrow and averted her gaze to the ocean below. It made her feel nauseous but it was better than facing the stranger next to her. “He doesn’t know.”

A pause. “No.”

She smiled tragically, surprised at the icy disappointment that coursed through her veins. “No of course not,” she whispered. “There’s the Brotherhood and there’s everything else... right?”

He crossed his arms over his chest defensively.

Nora shook her head, growing brave enough to remove her hands from the ship. “I just... don’t want tomorrow to be awkward. I don’t want to talk about what happened anymore. Whatever you need to say to me to feel closure or whatever, say it now.”

Danse shifted, brows furrowed in thought. “The Brotherhood is my family and I’ll die defending them. I want you to understand that.”

His words stung, acid as they landed on her ears. “And you should know I’d die for my brothers and sisters in the Railroad. And that I’ll never pretend to agree with your politics.”

“I don’t expect anything less from you.”

“Good, so we understand each other,” Nora said bitterly and brushed past him, clambering to be out of his line of sight before the dam gave and she fell to pieces.


	3. Remedies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nora, Deacon, and Danse travel together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was so hard to write and honestly I'm still not happy with it but I don't think I ever will be. It's also kind of long but I think it reads better this way than splitting it into two chapters.
> 
> On a separate note, this fic is my first time writing fiction in years. Part 1 is so rusty and bad and I would like to formally apologize. I already did an overhaul of chapter 1 and will update once I edit it all and it's decent enough. If you already read part 1 and are still here with me, you're a literal saint. Your support is so so so appreciated.
> 
> xoxo

**February 12, 2288**

For once, Danse did not rise with his first alarm. If he were anyone else, it might have been to give his weary limbs the reprieve they deserved but as it was, he was exhaling the remnants of the dream she’d conjured without his permission. The rise and fall of his chest was quickening with his pulse and he knew what was coming. A natural reaction, under the circumstances.

Pre-war. Maybe 2077 but he couldn’t be sure. A military banquet and he was in attendance, seated with Cutler and Amy and drinking a smooth whiskey. It burned differently. No rads, just alcohol. A man stood and approached a podium but if he started talking, he didn’t hear because there was a sudden emptiness beside him. He turned to discover Cutler was gone. Only Amy sat, eyes red-rimmed and spilling over silently. Enough of a hint that he knew what happened because it had happened before. How many times, he didn't know. He didn't search for his body or anything tangible to hold and remember. Would be an exercise in futility if his memory served him. Nothing was left of his friend except a grieving redhead and the panic that stirred in Danse's chest. It was expected, but still agonizing, when he slipped from his chair and his knees cracked against the floor. It felt everything like collapsing in Rivet City Bank when he'd returned to deliver the impossible news, exactly like that, because hands caressed his skin and they weren't Amy's. He never looked up and he was grateful now because it might have made it all worse.

It passed slowly and felt like dying, he thought. Every time, he couldn't breathe and it didn't matter that he'd survived it before. When the tightness in his muscles began subsiding, he pulled his head up from between his knees and looked at the clock. Four minutes, it had lasted. Only four.

He pulled himself out of his bed and stretched the remaining stiffness away before he grabbed a towel and headed to the showers. It would be the last he'd have for a while and so he lingered, water weakly rolling over him and eyes focused on some point far away. For the next few days, Nora would be inescapable, as cutting as she was alluring. Trapped, and he couldn't be sure it wouldn't induce another panic attack. He'd be damned if he let her see him that way. Unease sparked in his gut, withholding his peace from him. A rare feeling for the Paladin. He was tempted to Med-X it away.

All vulnerability was forgotten when he stepped up into his power armor and again felt his rank. Large and strong and completely controlled. Warm rays of sun washed over his face as he stepped onto the flight deck alert, ready, but not quite prepared. That was a strong word to use, he knew, and he wasn't sure it fit. Knight Cole greeted him with a salute and he returned it. He clunked down the stairs to the already humming vertibird where Desdemona stood, cigarette in hand.

He frowned. “Where’s Nora?”

“She and Deacon were learning their way around the suits last I saw," she replied through puffs of smoke.

“I expect they’ll report soon then.”

“Hell if I know.”

Unprofessional. A commanding officer without any command at all. A stark contrast to his Brotherhood: regimented, orderly, disciplined. In a word, superior.

The door to the Prydwen opened and two armored individuals-Nora and Deacon, he presumed-stepped through awkwardly.

“I feel silly,” Deacon groaned.

“You look pretty damn silly, too.”

”You know we're dressed in the same thing, right?”

Desdemona chuckled. “Careful. Don’t want to get gunned down by the Brotherhood of Steel. You look like Protectrons and I hear they don't take kindly to robots.”

“If you’re done,” Danse spat through clenched teeth.

The redhead stubbed her cigarette out on the railing and her voice turned stern. “I’ll see you two back on the Prydwen. Keep each other in one piece.”

"Course, boss," Deacon replied. He hopped into the awaiting vertibird and turned to offer Nora a hand, evidently still wary of the aircraft. Danse took his place at the minigun and gave Lancer Hall the all-clear to depart.

He'd hoped it would be a quiet ride to the drop off point and mercifully, it was. No hostiles on the ground even; the calm before the storm. Only the spin of rotors and the occasional radio transmission disturbed him.

When they descended, he dropped out first and Nora and Deacon followed, clumsy and uncoordinated.

From the cockpit, a fervent “Ad victorium, Paladin” reached his ears and he responded in kind. The vertibird lifted, its whirring fading until it disappeared on the horizon. Before them was nothing but bleak yellow and it sizzled in the air around them, their suits all that stood between their susceptible human flesh and a chemical death.

The first steps into the glowing sea were miserable as their throats adjusted to the radiation in the air. Each breath was accompanied by sharp stinging and the frantic clicks of their geiger counters. It was hours before they had grown used to the pain. Their pace was slow through the thick fog but their paths rarely crossed with mutated creatures, a blessing he hadn’t counted on. They’d put down a few ghouls between the three of them but by the time darkness began to creep in, their power armor was still pristine.

The same could not be said for Danse's ego. Years as a Paladin taught him to assume the burden of responsibility on assignments. He rarely received pushback and even then, nothing he couldn’t resolve with forceful warnings or the occasional report but his rank meant nothing to the Railroad agents. He'd suggested climbing a jagged mountain directly in their path to avoid hostiles but Nora was quick to offer a rebuttal.

"That'll use too much of our fusion cores. We're better off risking ammo."

"A fusion core is worthless if we don't survive."

She sighed sharply. "There's three of us. We'll watch each other's backs, it'll be fine."

"I'm well aware of the capacity of a core, soldier. It's not wise-"

“Hardly a soldier," she shot, stalking past him and around the mountain.

Every order was a challenge she took, goading him into seething resignation by the day's end. Not a soldier indeed. He’d only used the term at all to avoid her name and any more nightmares it might invoke.

Shelter was few and far between in the sea but they located a shallow cave that was suitable enough. Danse insisted they leave their armor on regardless to prevent radiation poisoning and he was met with a groan of protest.

“It’s so _hot_ in here,” Deacon whined.

“Discomfort is preferable to death.”

Nora chimed in, on his side for a change. “He’s right, Deeks. We just have to deal for now.But we still have to eat. You can take your helmet off for that.” She pulled her backpack from her chest plate and rummaged around until she found three cans of cram. She held one out to Danse. 

When he accepted it, his hands were slow and skeptical. He thanked her and peeled off the lid. It was like a switch being flipped. One moment Nora was his opposition and the next taking care of him and he hardly knew what to do with it. There was no precedent for their arrangement, no how-to guide to consult. He wasn't under the illusion that he'd earned any warmth from her but it was the pendulum shift, the hot and cold, that caught him unaware and startled him.

The air assaulted his lungs once again as he disengaged his helmet. He pulled his hood off and brushed quickly through his matted hair, feeling the day’s sweat at his scalp, dried and itching. In minutes, Danse had finished his meal but Deacon and Nora ate slower, small talk and jokes punctuating spoonfuls of Cram. He pulled apart Righteous Authority and downed a carton of purified water before he began to clean his rifle.

“Maybe I should bring Shaun a Radscorpion stinger or something as a souvenir.”

“Don’t you dare,” Nora threatened. “He’ll hurt himself.”

“Well obviously I’d drain it first.”

“No way. It’s way too potent. He’s not-“

“Okay, okay... how about a deathclaw horn?”

“You really think that’s better? Is that honestly what you’re going with?”

“Sheesh. Alright. Just the hide then.”

“Maybe.”

“I’ll make a leather jacket out of it.”

”So he can look like you?”

”So he can look cool. Are you saying you think I’m cool?”

”I would never admit that.”

”I’ll take what I can get.”

Their conversation stopped and Danse could hear their helmets locking back onto their suits.

“I’ll take first watch,” Nora’s voice crackled through her speaker.

“That’s not necessary. You should rest. I’ll wake Deacon up in a few hours and you can take the last shift,” he ordered, not looking up from his rifle.

“That’s ridiculous. It’s not any trouble for me to go first.”

It was mercy that persuaded him to offer her the first long stretch of uninterrupted sleep-the best shift, he thought-but it was irritation that caused him to insist. “That’s hardly what I based my decision on.” 

“Then what is it? Chivalry? You’re tired, I can see it. Would you just-“

“That’s the end of the discussion, Nora,” he roared, tone steeped in finality.

The eyes of her helmet stared angrily at him-not, he knew, a far cry from the expression on her face. “You always think you know best, don't you?" She stomped as far away from his as she could in their small cave and laid back on the ground.

He sighed forcefully through his nose. Removing their armor was a death sentence but it was uncomfortable to sleep in and could only increase their agitation. A long journey made longer.

Deacon cleared his throat, awkward in the tension they'd created. “Well I’m gonna turn in too,” he feigned a yawn. “I hate it when mom and dad fight.”

Danse grunted. “Goodnight.”

Despite the note on which the night had ended, Deacon and Nora quickly succumbed to their exhaustion and Danse fully exhaled for the first time all day.

He wasn’t sure what to make of Deacon. Rarely serious, always making light of their dire situation, and even without his helmet shielding his face from view, his eyes remained blocked by dark sunglasses. He was guarded, certainly, and Danse wondered if the barrier was always up or if the Brotherhood alone inspired his trepidation.

Nora, he was finding, had grown insufferable. She was everything wrong with new recruits: insubordinate, demonstrative, stubborn as hell. He could hardly reconcile her with the warm, clever woman he’d bared his soul to all those years ago. He shouldn’t be surprised; the Railroad twisted everything.

His mood effectively soured, Danse turned his attention back to his dismembered weapon and wiped its pieces down thoroughly until it was immaculate. Not a single creature dared disturb him and when he examined the clock in his helmet’s display, he was surprised to find that he had already burned through his shift.

He stood and walked over to Deacon.

A careful nudge was all it took to wake him, not having been able to attain deep sleep in the time allotted. “Huh, what?”

”It’s your watch.”

Deacon yawned and sat up. “I never get my beauty sleep.”

Danse smiled in spite of himself, grateful for the metal masking his expression. He didn't want to find Deacon amusing, didn't want to get along with him but something about his blasé persona was winning him over, a light balance to Danse's heaviness. 

He grabbed his rifle and checked the clip. “Listen, I know you’re still upset with Nora but she means well.”

The paladin stiffened.

"She's the reason the Railroad has been as successful as it has. She's always 0 or 100, no in between."

"I would use the term ‘domineering’," Danse snapped. The men switched places, Deacon at the mouth of the cave and Danse next to Nora. He studied her warily as if she might lurch at him at any moment but she remained still, curled in on herself and snoring lightly, harmless in sleep. "What’s her rank?"

"She’s in charge of the whole damn operation. The technical term is leader but she never corrects you if you call her ‘Supreme Overlord’.”

"Since when?"

"I dunno, few years at least."

It didn't seem possible for her to so quickly achieve such a rank but somehow it made sense. Zero or 100. All in or entirely opposed.

"All I'm saying is... she grows on you."

*

**February 13, 2288**

The morning was indicated only by Nora’s wake up call. Sunlight never broke through the radiation and no birds chirped, a reminder of their predicament. No place was less hospitable than the glowing sea.

That is, except Nora’s bad side.

She hadn’t forgiven Danse. Every remark his direction was short and terse and pure necessity. He offered strategic advice that was usually ignored and when a wrong call brought them feet from a deathclaw, it was near impossible to bite back “I told you so”. The creature slammed Deacon into a crater but it was enough of a distraction for Danse to dispatch it with rapid laser bombardment concentrated between its horns, eating away at the bone until gray matter broke through.

He shot Nora a disapproving glare behind the steel of his helmet but she dismissed it with a shake of her head. “Don’t.”

It might’ve made him furious if it hadn’t brought him so nearly to his knees.

Something akin to sympathy crawled under Danse’s skin, struck nerves, and he immediately regretted his actions. Recon Squad Gladius all over again and this time she was the paladin. The mission had wrecked him thoroughly and if he couldn’t offer her a sliver of understanding, it had truly been a failure. The Commonwealth devoured. It wasn’t her fault.

He mulled over apologies in his head until they settled near an abandoned shack for the night. Swallowing his pride or a Molotov, it didn’t matter; it all burned the same.

“I’m first this time,” Nora announced, more for him than Deacon.

”Of course.”

It disarmed her, both literally and figuratively, because she nearly dropped the bullets she was loading into her clip. Without looking up, she shoved the magazine back in place and sat back into the chair closest to the gaping hole in the wood that served as a door.

Danse tossed and turned as he had many nights before but this time, he could pinpoint the source. Still staring out of the patchy roof, he cleared his throat. “I want to apologize.”

Movement and then stillness. A sign, at least, that she was listening.

”While I often disagree with you, I believe that you're competent and qualified. If my actions suggest otherwise, it's only because your methods are foreign."

She was quiet for so long that he was slipping into unconsciousness, satisfied with having made amends as much as he could, but she finally mumbled a reply.

"...thank you, Danse."

*

**February 15, 2288**

Days passed with little in the way of physical battle. Enemies were spotted and avoided more often than not in the interest of saving ammo and medical supplies. Other times, the monsters of the glowing sea were quickly eliminated, taken out easily by the aggression stored from the altercations between Nora and Danse. Whatever tenderness passed between them in the shack had dissipated as the radiation thickened around them and their restlessness mounted. They butted heads nearly every opportunity they had, sometimes over how to use their limited supplies and others about the most efficient way to reach their target and stay on course. Deacon had the sense to limit his sarcastic comments, aware of the thin tempers that surrounded him. By the time they reached the Children of Atom, it had been hours since they'd spoken but Danse was still indignant, still fiery.

Nora started toward their camp. "I'll speak to them. Maybe they know something about Virgil.”

He grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back. "Absolutely not. They're bound to have radiation poisoning. They can’t be trusted."

"This can shorten our trip. Don't be so damn prideful."

Nora marched confidently to the rickety wooden shacks and with a shrug, Deacon took off after her. Danse grudgingly followed and drew his rifle in the event the interaction went south.

Only it didn't. Nora charmed them and elicited the information they needed quickly and easily, both impressing and annoying Danse. She took point as they trekked up to the cave that allegedly housed the scientist.

Turrets stood guard just inside, rumbling and ready but not firing on the intruders. Nora stepped past them slowly into the main room before she stopped, silhouette blocking her companions from seeing beyond her. "Virgil?"

"Where's Kellogg?" a throaty voice growled.

"Kellogg is dead. I killed him."

"Hmmm? You're... who are you?"

She removed her helmet. "I'm with the Railroad. These are my friends. We need information... information you might have."

When Nora stepped further inside, Danse could finally see who, or rather  _what_ , was speaking.

"A mutant?"

She turned around and shot him a venomous glare. "Don't do that here. He's not hostile."

"He's a monster, an a-"

"He's the only one who can tell us what we need to know," she stepped closer to him and pressed a finger into his chest plate menacingly. "So unless you'd rather explain to Arthur that we need to start back at square one because you couldn't control yourself, I suggest you let me handle this."

He tore his eyes away from hers to the mutant, finger on the trigger of Righteous Authority. It was disgusting, really, how he clung desperately to the remnants of his humanity, even going so far as to dress himself with modest clothes a pair of makeshift glasses. Like it could somehow reverse the effects of the FEV. Danse knew better. There was no going back, only acceptance and justice. But Nora was right, this was their only shot. A mutant's life for all the synths in the Commonwealth, the only trade worth burying his every instinct. "Fine."

Nora spent a few moments explaining their mission to Virgil and putting him at ease. She was remarkably adept socially, he noticed, and he wondered if she'd developed that skill by working so closely with her synths, no doubt distressed as they fled those who'd see them killed-those like himself. He'd always known she was emotionally intelligent but it seems it had matured into expertise with age; a weapon, in the wrong hands. She must know how she pushed him, must be doing it purposefully. His eyebrows creased under the weight of his irritation and his fists clenched.

The mutant warned them against the Institute but was forthcoming nonetheless. He scribbled some schematics down for a molecular relay device but it would all be worthless without a courser chip. Nora assured him they'd acquire one. Before they headed back into the sea, Virgil took her aside and the two spoke quietly. With a nod, she placed her helmet back on and gestured for Deacon and Danse to follow her out of the cave.

"What did he say to you?" Danse demanded after a moment, suspicious of the secrecy.

She paused, deciding how much to reveal to him. When she replied, it was slow and deliberate. "He... wanted something from his lab in the Institute, something he had been working on. I told him we'd look for it."

He couldn't tell if it was the truth but it satisfied him for the moment and he grunted in acknowledgement.

*

**February 19, 2288**

The group set out at 0800, morale significantly better than it had been in days. If all went to plan, they'd be sleeping in beds tonight-no harsh metal clenched around them, suffocating their skin, only the luxury of a lumpy mattress to cradle their exhausted bodies. Putting down the stray ghouls that found them on the outskirts of the sea was more entertaining than anything and Nora said nothing when Danse took point. For the first time, they settled into relative peace and Danse wondered if it was only the shock of their situation that had had them lashing out and unsure of how to behave in the other's presence anymore. Zero or 100, lovers or enemies and they had only just begun to navigate the messy in-between.

He was jolted from his thoughts as Nora's body flipped and her back connected with the irradiated dirt, knocking her rifle from her hands. A mass of black barreled toward Deacon, striking against his suit persistently. A radscorpion.

"I won't make this easy for you," Danse warned as laser fire pierced its torso.

It turned toward its attacker but settled for Nora, who was sitting up now, in between Danse and the mutated creature. She reached for her weapon while Danse and Deacon emptied their magazines into its skull. Another radscorpion suddenly erupted from the earth at Danse's elbow and he turned in time to catch a claw across his torso. Suddenly there were four and Danse stumbled back, trying to maintain a meager distance between the stingers and his dented armor. One round nuzzled into an eye and the radscorpion ceased its pursuit. Three to go. A cursory scan of his surroundings and Danse could see Deacon fending off his own attacker and Nora struggling underneath hers. Their gunfire seemed to hardly do any damage so he changed tactics, bashing the radscorpion repeatedly with the butt of his rifle. Its limbs flailed and he faintly heard the clatter of metal to the ground as some of his armor fell from its frame but after five hits, it was dead.

When he looked up, only one remained and Deacon made quick work of it, taking a cue from Danse and beating the life from it. All three suits had sustained heavy damage from the assault and he noticed Nora, too, had only the frame on her right leg and arm. He walked over to her and helped her up. "I suggest taking a dose of Rad-X to compensate for your missing armor."

She nodded and examined his own armor, out of breath. "You too?"

Deacon was already handing them both the pills and they removed their helmets long enough to swallow them. Nearly out of this hell, he reminded himself. Nearly home.

He checked his HUD. Five hours, assuming minimal interruptions.

Deacon sighed as they walked. "I can't wait to change my clothes."

"And shower. And drink," Nora added.

They resumed their silence, Danse on point. It felt comfortable, taking command. It was what he knew but as soon as he regained the control, he walked just a little slower as responsibility seeped into his skin and settled in his soul. A heavy weight, steel and lead and unadulterated duty in his bones. Every individual under him bet their life on his ability to successfully navigate each situation. He'd done it many times before, was good at what he did, but it never failed to strike him just how much a single slip up could cost. It was a wonder Maxson didn't crumple under the pressure of his burden as Elder, a load far more cumbersome than Danse's.

His concern kept him checking in on his team frequently so he was the first to notice when Nora stopped cold, breathing heavily through her speaker. “Is something amiss?”

She bent slightly and ran her metal fingers over her right shin. “I c-c-can’t feel m-my leg,” she stuttered.

Deacon bent down, gingerly pushing the torn denim behind the power armor frame aside to examine her. “Jesus, Nor! When the hell did this happen? You said you were fine.”

She hadn't. She hadn't said anything. They hadn't asked.

”Hmmm?” she breathed weakly. “I-I d-d-don’t... I... can’t move it.”

Her breathing was growing more and more shallow. Danse stepped forward and wrestled her helmet off, hoping to give her access to more air. A striking pale had replaced her olive skin, accentuating the dark circles under her eyes that had developed. He was familiar with the effects of a radscorpion sting but had never seen one progress this far. He should have been more thorough, should have checked her for damage beneath the areas where her armor was compromised. If he was right, if it was the radscorpion venom, it had already been in her system for hours and it was impossible to know how much polluted her veins without proper medical equipment. “Deacon. Administer Radaway immediately. I’m going to get her out of this suit.”

”Are you insane? She’ll-“

”That was an order, civilian,” he barked, engaging the release on her power armor.

Nora exited slowly leaving Danse to lift her injured leg out himself. The maneuver threw off her balance and she stumbled back into his chest.

A needle pressed into the crook of her arm and she whimpered as thick red-brown leaked into her bloodstream. “What are y-y-you-“

”I’ll take her. Run ahead and throw this grenade as soon as the rads fade. We’ll be right behind you,” Danse pressed the grenade urgently into Deacon’s palm.

He nodded, evidently having decided to allow the Paladin to take charge. Deacon sprinted away and Danse followed as quickly as he could manage with Nora in his arms.

He should have checked her.

No pace was fast enough. Danse didn't look down, didn't want to see her turning into something _other_. When his eyes disobeyed him and he took in the frail body slumped against his chest, he saw Keane. Dawes... Cutler. Blood on his hands, one way or another. And then a blink and she was Nora. Everything between them strained, vexingly complicated, unnatural. But now she didn't move, didn't speak and she'd never been this quiet at any other point in his memory because she was rapidly fading, losing all of her strength, her will, her passion. Everything that made her Nora. It drove him faster until he caught up with Deacon, red smoke billowing up into a pillar above them.

Time slowed for Danse and he did his best to busy himself as they waited. By the time the vertibird reached them, he'd replaced the empty Radaway bag embedded in Nora's arm with a full one, cleaned and dressed her wound, and administered as high a dose of Med-X as he safely could.

Scribe Haylen greeted him as they boarded and quickly assessed Nora's condition. He informed her of the situation and the measures he'd already taken. "I don't think I can do much else right now," she shouted, voice competing with the steady churning of the aircraft. She took Nora's blood pressure and recorded it, radioing the details to the Prydwen. It didn't calm Danse's nerves, even when he heard Cade's professional monotone respond, practiced enough to keep his cool regardless of the circumstances.

Five minutes out from the airport, Nora started spasming. His power armor kept him from feeling her muscles contract and relax, kept his rising panic attack at bay. He watched  her for a few seconds before he forced his eyes forward to the looming Prydwen.

 "She's seizing." Haylen pulled her belt from her waist and shoved it between Nora's teeth. "Rush her to Cade immediately."

The moment the vertibird docked, Danse was already out, making his way to the sick bay. Cade directed him to lay Nora's body on a bed already prepared for her and immediately got to work ordering Scribes to retrieve equipment and pumping her full of liquid chems. Dazed, he took a seat out of the way of the bustling medical personnel and removed his helmet and hood. He was raw, on the edge of a breakdown. If she died, he'd be forced beyond his limits, past his breaking point. He must've looked that way, too. A scribe approached and ushered him to a table and out of his armor. He barely registered it as she looked him over and patched up any minor injuries.

She was asking him questions but he didn't respond because his eyes focused intently on silver glinting from a surgical tray across the room: Nora's earrings, misshapen and crushed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always pair music with books/fics so if you find a song you think complements this, let me know so I can listen too!


	4. Armistice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danse discovers something unexpected about Nora.

**February 23, 2288**  

"Easy, Danse. I think it's done.”

Ingram's voice was just behind him and the slight irritation in it might’ve been his fault. Then again, it could just be Ingram.

She crossed her arms over her chest. "You've been in here every day since you got back. I couldn't have fixed it up better myself."

Danse turned the wrench over in his hands, gloved fingers caressing the steel. He knew eventually she’d kick him out and with him, his power armor, but he couldn’t admit he'd run out of repairs. Nothing else offered him quit as much relief from the nagging concern in the back of his mind. Elder Maxson had already briefed him. "S _he's recovering remarkably_ _well_ ," he'd said. " _Cade informed me there would be no long-term damage because of your intervention in the field. Good work, Paladin._ " He slept better now, ate more. The catch, of course, was that he wasn't permitted to see her and he knew it was because he'd been far too honest in his report. He didn't want to fight with Nora anymore. He didn't have it in him. He'd seen her nearly dead, nearly a ghoul. She'd never looked so weak. He would never forget again how human she was, despite the air of invincibility she gave off. All he wanted was to bury the proverbial hatchet but Cade had recommended she avoid stressors for the first week nonetheless.

"You want to talk about it?"

He rolled his eyes and tossed the wrench into the toolbox at a nearby table. "No." A loud hiss signaled the opening of his power armor and he stepped inside, effectively ending the conversation.

Ingram mumbled under her breath and trudged over to her terminal.

It was useless to drain a fusion core walking around the Prydwen in full battle armor so Danse thunked back to his quarters to drop it off. He hunted for a report that needed writing or a stray pencil he could put away but it was fruitless. His room was completely orderly and he'd already burned through every piece of paperwork required of him. On his desk, he spied the worn history book he'd already consumed innumerable times and grabbed it, retreating to the flight deck.

He was surprised to find Nate at the end of the catwalk, perched on a crate and dissolved in his own book. His companion was quiet, brooding and haunted by his past. It suited Danse just fine; he wasn’t so different from Nate. He knew if he were to approach him, he might be greeted but ultimately left to himself and for once, it was the one thing he didn't want but any company was better than his thoughts.

”Paladin,” Nate nodded as Danse sat beside him.

”Knight.”

He was trying to think of something to say, some small talk to distract himself from memories of open wounds and muscle spasms. Thankfully, Nate seemed to sense his uncharacteristic disorder.

”You alright, Danse?”

”I’m fine, soldier.”

Nate closed his finger in his book and scratched at his chin. “Is this about Knight Anderson?”

Danse raised an eyebrow.

”Oh,” the younger man smiled bashfully. “Well... nevermind.”

He expected some kind of lecture from his sponsor, leaning away just so to soften the rebuke, but Danse just chuckled. “Keep it within your rank and don’t let it interfere with assignments.”

Nate’s eyes narrowed, slits of blue silently watching for the other shoe to drop. Suspicion at the unexpectedly lax boundaries was common but it was only practical; war demanded tremendous sacrifice but it also forged intense bonds.

The paladin waited for questions his knight never voiced and the pair fell into silence, studying the skyline. A sorry view, Danse thought, but he’d never known it any other way and had always found it oddly beautiful despite the widespread destruction: glistening glass in dilapidated high-rises and unwilling metal ripped from its foundations and folded back on itself, brought to its knees by the bombs. Sometimes he thought he could imagine them in all of their glory and then the vision faded but it spurred him on. Mission. Purpose.

He cracked open his book and attempted to read the familiar words. He wondered if he could recite them from memory.

Vertibirds came and went at nearly all hours from the Prydwen and Danse had learned to tune them out, to focus his attention on the decaying pages in front of him, but one docked and a child emerged. It was unusual enough to draw his eye.

Desdemona was leading the boy into the ship and his fists clenched as he threw his book down and angrily marched toward her, leaving a confused Nate in his wake. It was entirely irresponsible to bring youth to the Prydwen; he barely tolerated the presence of the squires, let alone a noncombatant. He shouldn't have been able to board the vertibird in the first place.

”What the hell do you think you're doing? He’s a child. Get him out of here. We're at war."

Desdemona scoffed. "And you want to be the one to explain to Nora why her son wasn't permitted to visit her while she's injured? I'll take my chances with you, big guy. Let's go." She tugged at the boy’s hand.

The blood rushed from Danse's face. "What?"

His eyes darted to the child. How old was he? Eight, maybe nine, but he was never good at guessing age. She'd never mentioned any kids. He studied his face frantically, the muddy eyes and the dark hair. Just like Nora. Or just like him.

Desdemona flinched. “Well... anyway, Nora will want to see him."

She pulled Nora's son up the flight deck and Danse’s body followed while his mind swirled. Maybe he wanted to see Nora interact with the boy, to confirm Desdemona's story. Maybe he wanted to see Nora's face when she saw him and realized he knew. Maybe he wanted to demand an explanation, to ask if the boy was somehow his; if he was a father.

The word felt strange in reference to himself. He'd never imagined having kids. And then, suddenly, shock gave way to grief. Soul-crushing, heart-wrenching sorrow in his chest. If that was his son, he'd missed so many years. The kid’s memories would be as empty of a father as his own. What did he know? Had anyone taught him to shoot properly? Hand-to-hand combat? Basic first aid? Had he needed any of that yet?

What did he think happened to his dad? Did Nora ever talk about him? How could she not have told him? She must not have known she was pregnant until she'd left Rivet City. She wouldn't keep it from him otherwise, would she? Even then, why didn't she seek him out when she knew? Did she really think it wouldn't change anything, that he wouldn't want his child? It would've changed everything. When his eyes closed, he saw her: Nora laboring, delivering their child alone-or worse, with _someone_ , anyone besides him. Maybe Deacon. His blood boiled. If he'd just been given a chance-

"Mom!" the boy cried as he spied Nora lying in the sick bay. He ran to her and threw his arms around her neck. "Are you okay?"

Her hands curled tenderly around his. "I'm okay, Shaun.” 

”I’m sorry but Nora needs her rest,” Cade interrupted.

She didn’t look up at the doctor at all, fully absorbed in her son, a mother through and through and it was so obvious now. “Listen, give me a few hours and we’ll hang out okay? I promise. It’ll be fun, find some Nuka-Colas and snacks and we can stay up telling stories again.” She looked excitedly at Shaun and he nodded.

”And you’ll tell me about how the Radscorpion got you?!”

”Sure will.”

”Okay,” he kissed her cheek, satisfied with the trade he’d made.

Knight Captain Cade wasn’t.

”Nuka-Cola is hardly appropriate. Radaway can make you dehydrated. What you need is water.”

Nora rolled her eyes. “Eavesdropping, Cade?”

The man grumbled under his breath and drew the curtain around her bed closed before returning to his desk.

Desdemona led Shaun out into the hallway and turned to face Danse, motioning for him to follow. When he was close enough, she addressed him quietly. “I can’t stay here. I have things to attend to at HQ. Watch the boy until Nora wakes up.”

”I... I don’t-“

”Thank you,” she squeezed his arm in gratitude as she brushed past him, fleeing down the ladder and leaving him flustered and irate.

He rubbed the back of his neck, turning back to the boy. Shaun didn’t look daunted in the slightest.

”Who are you?”

”I’m... Paladin Danse.”

”Oh,” he nodded, unsure what to make of him. “I’m Shaun.”

Danse looked around the hallway, desperately seeking direction. Scribes and knights bustled past, giving him respectful nods and muttered “sir”s but offering no assistance as he floundered.

”You’re really tall,” Shaun commented, head tilted at an uncomfortable angle to make eye contact.

He cleared his throat. “Are you hungry?”

“Yeah, kinda.”

The Paladin led them into the mess hall, gaze never fully leaving Shaun. If he could catch him in the right light or recognize some of his own mannerisms, it might be enough, some undeniable sign that they were blood. He sat across from him at a small table in the corner of the cafeteria, aware of the eyes they drew. It was strange if he made it to the mess at all; usually, a meal was left in his quarters so he could work through dinner. Even stranger was Danse in the mess with a small child. For a moment, it felt like his inner turmoil was on display. It was enough to cause him to lose his appetite.

They ate in silence at first, Danse barely picking at the meat in front of him, but as Shaun finished his food, he grew more talkative.

”Are you in charge of this place?”

”No. Elder Maxson is.”

”Is he even bigger than you?”

”No.”

Shaun pondered his answer. “Why not?”

”It wouldn’t be advantageous for us to base leadership on size rather than ability,” Danse explained.

No, that wasn't how you were supposed to talk to kids. He was no good at this.

Shaun took another mouthful of food and Danse tried again. “Elder Maxson is in charge partly because he successfully fought a deathclaw alone.”

Now he got a reaction. Shaun’s eyes widened at the revelation. “Wow. It’s good that he’s in charge then.”

”He’s a great leader,” he agreed.

”My mom killed some deathclaws.”

”Judging from what I’ve seen so far, I don’t doubt it.”

”How do you know her?” Shaun asked. His tone was suspicious, protective, as only a child in the wastes could be.

”Ah, well...” Danse felt his face growing red as he struggled to explain. “We were friends in Rivet City.”

”I’ve never been there,” he shrugged.

Danse cleared their plates and thanked the mess hall staff. He wasn’t really sure how long he’d need to keep Shaun busy and his only idea to entertain him resembled initiate training, something he didn't think Nora would be fond of.

”What do you like to do?” Danse pressed.

”I really like building things,” he rested his chin in his hand, slumping full and content into his seat. “Right now I’m trying to mod one of mom’s rifles with Tinker Tom but he told me we have to take it apart before she sees because she doesn’t like drum magazines. But it’s good practice, I guess.”

Weapon modding. Danse could do that.

“Have you ever added a photon exciter to a laser rifle?”

”No.”

”I haven’t either. I could use some help if you don’t mind.”

Shaun lit up at the proposition. “Really? What’s a photon exciter do?”

They walked to the weapons bench as Danse animatedly explained the mechanics behind the device. It felt like he had something to offer him for the first time, something besides wide-eyed intimidation and awkward small talk. Shaun was a quick learner and by the time Captain Cade informed them that Nora was awake, the laser rifle they’d been hunched over also boasted an impressive scope.

“Alright, soldier, now you just have to name it,” Danse instructed him. “It’s Brotherhood tradition to name your favorite weapon.”

Shaun thought for a moment. “How about Larry?”

”What? No, not... people names. Something like ‘Righteous Authority’. Something that reminds you why you fight or what motivates you.”

“Oh. How about ‘Free the Synths’?”

The Paladin sighed and had half a mind to correct the child’s ethics but to do so would only alienate Nora further. “We can name it later.” He stuffed the rifle into the drawer in Ingram’s desk and stopped in the cafeteria once more before heading to the sick bay, Shaun in tow.

They appeared in the doorway, Shaun’s arms full of cola and food, and Nora glanced up. She smiled at Shaun but it faded when she noticed Danse at his side. He supposed he deserved that but it still twisted something in his chest. He said nothing, didn't even follow Shaun into the room. It felt intrusive, to hover while he got reacquainted with his mother, so he found himself back in his quarters trying to sleep.

It was one in the morning when Danse gave up and silently crept into the medbay. He needed to see her if nothing else, something for him to hold onto to remind himself she was still alive, that she wasn’t the irradiated version of herself his nightmares produced.

He didn’t expect her to be awake.

She stared unfocused at some point across the room, mindlessly stroking Shaun’s head as he slept beside her on the small bed. He approached slowly, hoping it conveyed his lack of hostility.

Her eyes snapped to him and she sucked in a breath. A small twitch of her eyebrows and he could tell she was on edge.

Danse pulled a stool to the side of her bed and sat. “How are you feeling?”

She reluctantly resumed her fingers combing through her son’s hair, examining the ceiling. “Better.”

Danse tried to gather his thoughts but she continued.

“I don’t remember much after I was stung. It gets hazy... they tell me without you intervening, I wouldn’t be here. At least, not mentally. Deacon likes you well enough now so the rumors must be true. Thank you.”

He cleared his throat, not prepared for this Nora: unassuming, defenses down, grateful even. She’d been thinking. Much like he had. “Of course.”

Her forehead creased and she winced as she readjusted her bad leg. She was still healing, still in a lot of pain. Still drugged, Danse assumed. He hoped she would be able to remember this.

”Are you alright? Should I get Cade?”

She groaned. “That man drives me insane. I’d rather die.”

He offered her an understanding smile, a treaty of sorts. The first of many.

”You’re not supposed to be here.”

“No.”

”So why are you?”

“You have a son,” he started. He felt his hands tremble slightly and he clasped them tightly together.

She didn’t speak, didn’t even blink.

”I... didn’t know.”

”Well it’s personal.”

He sighed. She was going to force it from him. “How old is Shaun?”

”He’s 10.”

He took a moment to do the math, to remember the biology.

“That’s... am I...” he struggled around the truth, hoping she’d understand what he was asking and spare him.

She stared blankly for a moment and then her eyes widened. “Oh... oh, Danse...” She shook her head and sat up, carefully untangling her arm from around Shaun without disturbing him. Her legs swung over the side of the bed and she faced him with a fallen expression. “He’s not yours.”

Danse might’ve felt relieved once. He’d never planned for a family and had spent the better part of the evening feeling guilty for being an absent father. That burden was finally lifted but an emptiness replaced it. He’d really liked Shaun, even began to look forward to teaching him things, passing his knowledge on. He’d made so many more plans than he’d consciously known that it broke something inside of him to have them destroyed. And if he wasn’t the father, someone else was. “Whose then?”

“He’s not in the picture. Never was, really.” Her fingers played idly with the edge of her dingy hospital gown.

Was that better or worse? It felt like both. “I’m sorry.”

Nora nodded, avoiding his eye contact. “Is that why you’re here?”

”No.”

She looked up at him just in time to catch the small, translucent package he tossed into her lap.

”Fancy Lads? What did I ever do to earn this?” she cracked, half-smiling.

”It's a peace offering.”

She opened the package eagerly and took a small bite, closing her eyes and moaning with pleasure. “Ugh. This is amazing. You know when you’re in here, they feed you slop. Actual slop.”

He laughed, nervous and quiet but light-hearted. “I’m aware. I’ve found myself in here more often than I’d like.”

Nora sighed around another bite of snack cake. “Alright. What's the catch? I already ate the damn cake so I guess I have to do whatever you ask now.”

“There are no stipulations. Although I’d... like to mend things.” His voice was unsure. What he really meant was that he wanted her to trust him again, that she affected him down to his core.

A long silence punctuated his proposal and she raised an eyebrow. It made her look critical. Her dark eyes wandered down to the floor and she took a deep breath. He was ready to be cut down. She’d been very clear how she felt about him and what he stood for and even though in her youth she'd said their differences could be overlooked, she now showed no indication of willingness to compromise.

”Okay.”

It was only a whisper but it was enough. A step closer to something like an armistice. "We start small," he said, fishing around in his pockets and producing two silver hoops he held out to her.

She looked at him in amazement and took them into her hands carefully, as if they might break again. "Cade said they were destroyed," she mumbled.

"They were."

Bright rings circled her irises under the fluorescent lights as she stared up at him, uncertainty fading and amusement taking its place. "I thought you hated them. ' _Nora, those are an unreasonable accessory_ '," she put her hands on her hips sternly in her best impression of him.

"Of course they are, they're far too large to be safe for combat."

She closed her eyes, laughing, the kind that was from deep in her stomach and was almost contagious. Almost. Her hand flew to her mouth to hush herself as Shaun stirred but when she was sure he wasn't going to wake up, she turned her eyes back to Danse, all comforting warmth and soft brown for him now. "Thank you. Really."

It was genuine, the first sincere moment they'd shared in years. His fingers twitched to touch her but it would be too much. Still, he felt the magnetic pull and settled for a hand on her shoulder, squeezing lightly. "Get some sleep, Adler."

"Night, Danse."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nora is basically Sole. She's just like Sole [remix].
> 
> Share all of your thoughts, I so enjoy hearing them!


	5. Something in the Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danse and Nora attempt civility.

**February 28, 2288**

The Prydwen felt small, downright claustrophobic on Nora's worst days. Every room was dark and hollow and she swore if she stayed too long in one spot, the cold metal would swallow her whole. She didn't belong; she knew, the walls knew, and the entire crew knew. There was no place for her there and they never let her forget it.

It was common knowledge that the Brotherhood hated synths and mutants and ferals. It was less well known how they despised the Railroad.

Looks, she could handle and at first, that’s all it was. Then it spiraled: soldiers aggressively brushing past her, spitting in her direction when she walked by, the classic “Railroad slut” called after her, the occasional hand on her ass. Shows of dominance to put her in her place. She wasn’t meek, not one to be pushed around, but retaliation only seemed to stoke the fire, especially when she used force. One particular groping incident had ended with her fist in the stomach of an initiate and she’d barely fled the scene in time to avoid violent repercussions. The higher ups didn’t condone the behavior but it happened so frequently that it was near impossible to report so she kept her tongue sharp and stayed vigilant of her surroundings. It worked well enough.

She preferred to sleep through the afternoons, when foot traffic clogged the arteries of the Prydwen, and put off anything that needed doing for the evening when there was less risk of an altercation and that night found Nora limping through the mess into the armory. She heard snickering as she passed-at her expense, no doubt-but didn’t acknowledge it.

With each step, a shooting pain radiated through her shin. She was still healing, wasn't supposed to be anywhere but the medbay but Cade had taken a few days of leave and she was going to go insane if she couldn't do _something_ productive.

Danse turned at the sound of her boots against the floor and wiped his grease-stained hands on a rag. “Adler.”

”Ingram around?”

”She’s down at the airport.”

She fiddled with her hands. “Ah.”

The silence felt unbearably awkward so she strode over to the weapons bench and emptied the contents of the bag she carried onto the metal surface: a few parts and a .44.

”Building something?”

”Well...” she sighed. “Trying.”

”I might be able to offer assistance.”

She stared at the pieces before her, willing herself to see how they would fit together. Glory’s note had sworn they were all she needed, that it was simple but for the life of her, she couldn’t make sense of it even with instructions. “Yeah. Alright.”

Nora stepped to the side as Danse approached the bench and studied her weapon. “What did you have in mind?”

”Just a hardened receiver.”

He picked up the pistol and looked it over. “I’m not familiar with this gun.”

She folded her arms over her stomach. “Um, I... took it from Kellogg. A mercenary working for the Institute. I believe I mentioned him.”

He hummed and placed it back on the workbench, gathering a few screws in one hand and getting to work.

She watched his hands, trying to discern the intricacies of modding so she might learn something. She was completely inept, convinced it was an art she’d never master, no matter how much Shaun tried to teach her. But Danse was skilled. He worked carefully; always mindful with his movements and words. She admired him for it. He was unhurried prudence, not prone to frustration and impulsivity. He could set the world right in an instant and he didn’t even know it. It was a piece of home in that empty zeppelin and something about it was stitching her up and breaking her apart.

”I didn’t take you for the pistol type.”

It dawned on her that he hadn’t known her to use weapons at all. Once upon a time she’d been a merc but it was short-lived and her life in Rivet City was safe and civilian. He’d tried to arm her with a laser rifle, taught her some self defense should she need it but other than that, he’d never seen her in combat until the glowing sea.

”I’m not. I’m a sniper if I have the choice.”

“Are you any good?”

Her mouth quirked up at the corners. “You a betting man, Paladin?”

*

A mile out from the airport, a ruined house crumbled away at the sides, exposing the 200-year-old remains of an apple pie American existence. The bombs had wreaked havoc on every piece of furniture and every appliance and time had destroyed the rest until the whole building and everything in it was rendered useless. For their purposes, it would work perfectly. Untarnished additions to the chaos now littered the structure-cups from the paladin’s room he’d been willing to part with.

He peered through her scope at the makeshift markers in the distance. When he was satisfied with their visibility, he handed the sniper rifle back to Nora.

”When you’re ready.”

”If I hit them all?” she prodded.

”What is it you want?”

”I wouldn’t say no to a few more Fancy Lads.”

“One.”

“Dammit, Danse, I know you have a stash. Three.”

“Two.”

She bit her lip. “Fine. Deal.”

”And if you don’t hit them all?”

”Then...” She knelt down and examined the targets through her scope. “I won’t backsass the Brotherhood of Steel for a whole three days.”

From her vantage and with the early darkness clouding her view, she could just make out two mugs and a plastic cup. She aimed at the first mug, precariously balanced on the arm of a couch, and held her breath.

Her index finger flexed and the muffled sound of ceramic splintering was a barely audible but sure confirmation of her accuracy. She couldn’t help but smile.

The second and third targets were in what used to be the kitchen-one on the broken refrigerator and the other beside the sink. Two more well-placed shots and both broke apart in jagged shards.

”Your aim is... adequate,” Danse grumbled.

“It’s easy when your targets aren’t moving. So easy, a paladin could do it.”

When she looked back, he was shaking his head but his eyes were amused. "Watch yourself, Adler.”

She returned to her scope to hunt for the last targets. She was about to accuse him of not having set out the last two at all, of rigging the game in his favor, but she spotted a glass balanced on uneven floorboards, teetering slightly in the breeze before completely toppling with the force of her bullet, pieces scattering. The final mug, found after another careful scan of the area, sat atop a dingy mattress, blending into the pillow behind it.

"There are things I like, you know. About the Brotherhood."

_Bang._

"Oh?"

She stood, basking in her victory and smirking. "I liked Lyons."

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Feigned annoyance, Nora knew, because his mouth twitched. Anyone else could've missed it but ten years wasn't nearly long enough to forget him. "Maxson's a brilliant tactician. I'd follow him anywhere, without question."

"I know you would."

The words came out more bitter than she intended and it raised his defenses, body stiffening and shoulders squaring. One step forward and two steps back. She didn't explain herself, didn't trust herself not to cut him deeper. They had just regained some sense of normalcy but she felt it slipping between her fingers. She propped her rifle against the wall closest to her just for something to do so she didn't have to meet his eyes.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and measured. "We’re not the bad guys. You used to believe that."

Nora swallowed, throat thick with sudden emotion. "I used to believe _you_.”

The air between them was growing frigid and stale now and as much as Nora blamed it on herself, she couldn't stop the confrontation. It was a long time coming, ten years of frustrated tears seeping into her sheets and lonely sighs breathed into someone else's mouth. She could move on from the past, had done it countless times out of sheer necessity, but not when it had worked its way into her future. Extricating the pieces of Danse from herself had been harrowing and time-consuming. She'd been so young, impressionable, and he was the first stability she had in this world. And then he walked away and left her behind and he made it look so  _easy_ that she hated him for it. 

"And now?" he demanded.

"And now?" she scoffed. “Now I know what you really do for a living. Not quite Project Purity."

"We're an army, not a charity."

She shook her head, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth and chewing back the harsh words that threatened to spill out. She took a moment to breath, to calm down as he watched her and waited for a reply. "And what’s the matter with charity?”

He hesitated, ran a hand through his hair. Telling.

She took a few steps toward him, sensing the conflict in him, seeing it in the way he set his jaw. ”I suppose you consider the Railroad charity. Maybe we are.”

Underneath all of their words, there was a single concern, that foundational disagreement that had torn them to shreds once and was now threatening to do so again. Neither wanted to speak it; it was too much like disturbing a grave. Those words were necessary, some type of closure would come with them, but they felt like rebreaking a bone healed wrong even as they sat behind her tongue.

”Synths aren’t dangerous and when they escape from the Institute, they’re not under their control. They just want freedom and safety,” she said quietly, reluctantly.

”They’re machines. They’re unpredictable.”

”Christ, Danse. I’m more likely to be hurt by one your own men than I am a synth!”

The accusation threw him off, stunned and confused him. “You’re safe here.”

“I’m not. We’re allies on the most superficial level but I’m still an enemy. I always will be and that’s the price for your rhetoric.”

He considered her words and it turned his expression grave. “That was never our intent.”

“Hard to control a weapon once you give it away,” she whispered. She hesitated for a moment before grabbing her rifle and turning to leave.

Whether he was still processing her words or fed up with her altogether, he didn’t follow and her hands squeezed the safety handles of the vertibird all the more tightly for the emptiness in her chest.

*

 **March** **1, 2288**

Nora picked at the limp vegetables in front of her and sighed.

She missed Deacon. If he were there, he’d crack some joke, probably dump his serving onto her plate, defending himself with the faux concern that she needed to eat more if she wanted to grow up strong like him.

The day had been a particularly difficult one and she craved human contact. The scribe that covered for Cade while he was gone had informed the knight-captain upon his return of how often she’d sneak away and her refusal to use crutches.

”After all we’ve been through?” she’d narrowed her eyes at the scribe. “After I bribed you and everything. Does no one respect an honest bribe anymore?”

And then Cade’s lecture ensued, boring her to tears. He reminded her of Maxson, just how strict and military he sounded when he was angry. She’d been forced to stay in that damn medbay again-“observation”, he called it. Nora was sure he meant to say retribution. She was still allowed to eat her meals in the mess and she’d take all the harassment that came with that just to escape the smell of sterilized tools and stale bedsheets for an hour.

She was still twirling a fork in the carrots she had no intention of eating when a tray clattered to the table in front of her.

“May I?”

Heads turned to eye the paladin and his questionable choice of seating. He didn’t pay them any mind and Nora shrugged, feigning nonchalance but eager for company.

He lowered himself into the chair and immediately pushed two snack cakes towards her. “I believe I owe you.”

She toyed with the wrapper on one of them. “Thank you.”

“You should finish your dinner first.”

“You should know better than to say something like that, Paladin Danse.”

She picked one up and peeled the package away, biting into the chocolate. He continued to try to convince her of the importance of the nutritional value of the carrots on her tray but he gave up when she opened the second cake. The smile at his lips was one of exacerbation but it was a smile nonetheless. He shook his head and mumbled something under his breath.

It sounded like “some things never change”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, I wrote February 30 as one of the dates and then I was like wait a minute...
> 
> xoxo


	6. Cold and Empty Spaces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The most important thing is ripped from Nora's life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have so enjoyed interacting with you all! Thank you for your continued support and encouragement, it makes me want to work that much harder on these chapters for you. I’m very friendly so don’t hesitate to reach out to me either here or on my tumblr, followthefreedomtrail9.
> 
> Super long chapter but maybe my favorite so far. All the feels.
> 
> xoxo

  **March 3,** **2288**

Technically speaking, Nora was under orders to rest but Cade couldn't have really expected her to listen. Not when she'd been locked in that stuffy medbay and trapped in her bed for days that seemed to stretch into years. That she'd survived at all was miraculous. She'd heard it so many times like broken records, from proctors and scribes and in those hushed tones attempting anonymity when she passed by. It was the least abusive piece of gossip she'd ever heard about herself, especially amongst the soldiers. In preparation for her departure to the glowing sea, she'd been bent over her armor, modifying it in an attempt to make it feel like it looked on Danse: like second skin. Her wrench had loosened a bolt and then tightened it again out of sheer anger when she overheard some childish asshole of an initiate inform Teagan that "that Railroad bitch" had spread her legs for Maxson to get her hands on a suit of theirs. Anywhere else, she'd have ripped into him but she didn't want to risk burning the bridge that was still under construction, the tenuous link between herself and the Brotherhood.

That link was Danse, only Danse and the schematics she'd brought back with her. And Maxson only knew about the latter. It wasn't quite an alliance; mutualism was a more precise term. The Brotherhood had the means and the motivation to wipe out the Institute and the Railroad had the dirty details. Useless without each other but together, a force to be reckoned with. She had to stay involved in the mission, a main participant, if she had any hope of finding Patriot and evacuating the synths before the Institute met its end but that depended on her working and she wasn't currently-technically-supposed to.

Ingram didn't bat an eye when Nora limped toward her but her tone was harsh, as always. "Aren't you supposed to be taking it easy?"

She winced, an accident she'd meant to suppress as her weight shifted slightly onto her bad leg, but she made up for it in confident assurance. "I'm doing great, thanks for asking. How's the relay coming?"

The proctor raised an eyebrow. "We have teams out looking for some of the rarer items we need but the relay dish and reflector platform are already almost done."

Nora nodded. "How long do you expect it to take? All of it, I mean?"

"That depends. If all goes well and our soldiers return with the things we need on the first run... we're talking days."

Days. The possibility sent a shiver down Nora's spine. It had taken her months to get Kellogg's name and even longer to find him but everything was moving so quickly now that it was dizzying.

She thanked Ingram and dismissed herself, seeking the Elder.

If they were that close to completion of the relay, she had to see him now. He had to let herbe the one that went through. It shouldn't be hard to persuade Arthur, pragmatic as he was. If it didn't work and she was fried, then it was no loss to him.

But her heart squeezed it’s painful protest at the thought of leaving Shaun.

Six years ago, he chose her. He came through the Railroad a toddler-the youngest they’d ever seen, an anomaly-and she’d been assigned to escort him to Nordhagen Beach to adoptive parents, two overjoyed settlers, but he'd screamed and wailed in dissent. He wouldn't let go of her, wouldn’t let her set him down, didn’t want anyone else, even Deacon. He was stubborn and in that way, he was Nora through and through. She’d adopted him herself, bought a house in Diamond City so he could attend school and be around other kids. The Railroad was a demanding line of work and Nora inevitably had to be away but it takes a village to raise a child and a village she had. Shaun had more family than he knew what to do with between HQ and Fenway.

Everything, all of her striving, was for Shaun, for his race, for his future. She couldn't imagine a better thing to die for if that was what it came to.

The irony of having such thoughts on her mind as her knuckles rapped against Maxson's door wasn't lost on her.

It was quiet inside. She briefly considered that she'd missed him but it wasn't likely. He had a schedule, she'd learned. The command deck, the airport ruins, his quarters. Like clockwork, the same times each day, and now-she turned toward the rhythmic tick of a nearby clock-he was surely behind that door. She pushed the handle and it bent under her hand: as good an invitation as any.

His coat twisted around him as he turned to face the intruder, fuming when he realized it was her. "What do you need, Nora?"

"We need to talk. About the relay."

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed through his nose. He must've known better than to try to lecture her about interrupting him, must have known it was futile, because he closed the file he'd been pouring over and pulled out two glasses.

She didn't like whiskey but she wouldn’t turn it down. Not from Arthur. It wasn’t social grace as much as it was strategic manipulation. Impression management. She needed him to see her for the better parts of herself: strong, battle-hardened, indestructible, determined.

A drink with powerful men was never just that; it meant being sized up.

"Something of an alcoholic, are you?" she teased.

"Something like that," he mumbled. In any other mood, she would’ve gotten a warning or a rebuke but today, he was in good spirits. How lucky.

Drops of whiskey splashed out of the glass as he poured. It smelled like him, or rather, he smelled of whiskey. It shouldn't have surprised her: so young, early twenties with an unfathomable amount of responsibility. It made her want to weep right there. Mourn the things he'd lost. Did he have a mother somewhere to do that for him? "How old are you?"

If anyone ever asked him that, she wouldn't know because his stony demeanor cracked just a little at her question. Maybe taken by surprise, maybe irritated, maybe letting her a centimeter closer to himself or some combination of the three. "Twenty-two."

She forced down a mouthful of whiskey. "Jesus. How do you stand it?"

"It's in my blood. It's honorable."

"Of course, Elder," she curtsied in her seat mockingly. "I just mean... aren't you tired? When do you get away? I always see you on this damn ship and not anywhere else."

"I've been down supervising the relay as well."

The only hint that he wasn't annoyed by her prying was the crinkle at the edge of his eyes. The alcohol, she assumed. Either way, it brought a warmth to her cheeks and she kicked herself for it. They weren't friends but it was just so _rare_ that the animosity between them dissipated. 

"Right. Lots of fun." Nora took another sip of the godawful drink and this time he read her disgust.

"You don't have to drink it if you don't like it."

A way out. She didn't take it. "S'not so bad."

He ignored her, stood up and rummaged through a drawer in his desk. "What do you drink, then, if not whiskey?" 

"I’m fine.”

He chuckled. Arthur Maxson. Elder, if she was being proper. She wouldn't have believed the man could produce such a sound if she didn't hear it herself. He turned back to her with a beer and chugged the last of her whiskey before opening the Gwinette Stout.

"Ah. A gentleman." She took a sip and it was instant relief from the foul aftertaste clinging to the back of her tongue. "You know, underneath your raging racism, you're really not all that bad. But I'm sure you get that a lot."

He nodded, playing along. "Often. Now what is it you want?"

"The relay is pending a few items as I'm sure you're aware. I know we still need the courser chip."

"I have a team taking care of it."

"I plan to go after it myself."

"In your condition-"

"It's hardly a condition. I'm practically fully healed and even if I weren't, I've faced a courser before." She hadn't but she'd seen one, watched her in combat and took mental notes. Close enough. "I'm better suited than anyone you could send."

His mouth straightened into a line and he considered her proposal, tapping his index finger against the glass in his hand. "You'll take Paladin Danse."

"Fair enough," she sighed. "And when all of that's finished, I want to go. I want to be the one sent into the Institute."

"I'm afraid I can't honor that request, Nora. Knight-Captain Cade would-"

"You know, I think we're really similar," she mused. "Do you take weeks off of work, Arthur?"

He shook his head and a short, frustrated laugh escaped him. "The relay is only capable of transporting one person one time. The Institute won't receive us well and if you're discovered, your ability to single-handedly survive an assault will be severely reduced. This isn't supposed to end with a casualty."

"As I've said, I'm fine. My leg isn't a problem. I can handle it. And if I go and I do end up dead, at least it wasn't one of yours."

"That blood is still on my hands. If I let you go in there, alone and crippled..." he trailed off, staring her down. Incredulous. Willing her to understand.

And she did, in a way. Even though the Brotherhood was just organized bigotry, she'd never want to send one of them to their death. There was more than enough killing in the Commonwealth without her contributing unnecessarily. But this was a partnership of equals and it wasn't his decision to make. She leaned forward, just inches from his face. "You wouldn't have this relay without me. You're not in a position to make that call. Send me or we'll have to take a vote."

"Then we'll vote."

There was no defeat in his voice. He was sure he'd get his way and it made her furious. Deacon could go, would be willing, and she might've suggested it but now it felt too much like giving in. Maybe he just didn't trust her-he shouldn't, after all-but he'd met his match in Nora Adler.

As it turned out, Desdemona and Deacon had already made the trip back to HQ. She’d only been made aware after searching for an hour, scouring the Prydwen and then the airport, when a knight finally took pity on her and asked if she was looking for “the other two”-they stuck out like sore thumbs, she supposed, as the only ones not dressed in Brotherhood formal.

She hiked back to the airport to the radio near the Nuka Cola machine. It hardly saw any use; the frequency wasn’t secure and they communicated as little as possible over it but it was helpful nonetheless.

Soft yellow light illuminated the ancient dial and static crackled through its speakers.

She held the mic to her lips. ”Dez?”

Nora counted to 20. There was no answer, no sign she’d been heard.

"Dez? Is anyone there?"

Someone was supposed to be near the radio on either end at all times. She was growing worried when Desdemona replied.

"Nora. I'm so sorry."

"It's fine," she relaxed her shoulders and exhaled. "Listen, I need you and Deacon to meet me here as soon as possible. We need-"

"Deacon isn't there?"

Her eyebrows creased in confusion. "No... he's supposed to be?" Only static once again and her dread mounted, rising from her gut into her chest, her shoulders, her cheeks. "What's going on?"

"It's your son."

Desdemona's voice kept ringing in Nora's ears, far off and tinny, as she explained how Shaun had gone missing from Diamond City. One second he was playing with Nat and the next he was pulled away into a blinding flash of blue. A courser, no doubt, but she didn’t give many details. Not over the radio. 

Her knees buckled and before she could stop herself, she was in a pile on the floor, agonizing heartbeats pumping faster and faster through her veins until her whole body heard the news and ached. It was grief, like she'd felt before many times and yet entirely new now. She'd buried friends-God, so many, some more like family. But losing Shaun, who trusted her to protect him...

She was alone and then she wasn't, Deacon's arms around her, supporting all of the weight she no longer could. She was breathing fast, too fast to get any air at all. He tried to calm her, his hands rubbing soft circles into her back and whispering "it's okay, Nor" so many times, over and over until she felt sick because it  _wasn't_ okay. She pulled away and retched until her stomach was as empty as her heart. A trembling hand wiped her mouth. Somewhere she registered the looks the soldiers gave her: worried, appalled, confused. But then Deacon's face blocked them from her line of sight and she clung to him, never so grateful to see that stupid pair of sunglasses in her life.

"Hey, don't you have better stuff to do?" he yelled over her shoulder to the audience she'd garnered. She didn't open her eyes but the shuffling of boots told her they were turning back to their work leaving her to sort through her thoughts, torrential and pounding now in her skull, like turrets firing and she was unarmored.

She wasn't there. If she had been, would it have been so different? If the Institute could teleport anywhere on a whim, then nowhere was safe and it was a wonder he hadn't been stolen long ago. Why now? Was he distressed? Did they use his recall code? Had they wiped his mind, cleared her from it completely? Of course they would. The thought made her shake, passionate anger now burning through her sadness. She could only hope that whatever had caused him to choose her in the first place, that implored him to grab onto her and never let her go, would work in her favor once more.

It had to be her going into the Institute. If there was any yield in her before, it was gone now. It _had_ to be her.

*

When Nora entered the Elder’s quarters again that evening, she felt an odd sort of restless tranquility, invigorated by her loss and bound and determined to get what she wanted. Desdemona and Deacon had been hesitant to let Nora be ripped apart and put back together in enemy territory but they knew it was the only way to sate her mother's heart and at least she was a known quantity in the eyes of the Brotherhood. In the end, they’d agreed she was well-suited for this job: lithe on her feet, quick, charismatic, and, now more than ever, motivated.

She stopped at the head of the table, Maxson directly across from her at the other end. Kells was at his side, loyal pet that he was, but Danse stood farther back, arms over his chest and unmistakably uncomfortable.

She rolled her shoulder back. “Okay. I’m guessing everyone knows what we’re doing here then. I want to volunteer myself to go through the relay and into the Institute.”

Arthur sat back onto his desk. “All in favor?”

She raised her hand and to the surprise of exactly no one, so did Dez and Deacon. The fourth hand, however, was unexpected.

Kells.

Nora smiled. “That's it then.”

It wasn't part of the plan. Maxson bit out, “Lancer-Captain.”

”I don’t think we should be risking our necks if she so clearly wants to go. It’s only practical, sir.”

”My leg will be much better by the time this actually happens, alright? It won't hinder me. No one needs to worry,” she offered in Kells’ support.

What Nora imagined would be a long night of argument and counter argument in rapid succession was over before she knew it and she excused herself as Kells and Maxson heatedly contested his vote. She ambled into the mess, nearly empty at the late hour, and hunted behind the counter for a Nuka Cherry.

“What do you think you're doing?”

Danse had followed her and was glaring at her across the counter, every bit as tense as he'd been in Maxson's quarters.

She sighed and popped the cap on her soda. “Getting a drink. Is that alright with you?”

”Do you have a death wish, Adler?”

”Someone has to do it.”

”You’re a leader. You have subordinates who need direction.“

She was growing annoyed. Whatever he was trying to do, it wouldn't work. She was resolute. "We have a chain of command and everyone in it is qualified to take my place. And since when do you give a fuck about the Railroad?”

"What about Shaun?"

 _Oh_. It hit her in the lungs and ripped the air out of her throat so that all she could offer in reply was stunned defiance. When she caught her breath, she was in his face, teeth bared and nails digging into her palms. "Everything I do is for Shaun! Don't _ever_ accuse me of anything different."

He didn't flinch away and for once her anger didn't feed into his. He just stood, staring down at her until his frustrated mask melted into something softer. It was that same face that had greeted her when he snuck into the medbay that night and brokered a deal with her and she didn't know what to make of it. It had been so long since he could make her squirm like he was now, inspiring uncertainty and anxiety in the pit of her stomach because dammit, she had no idea what he wanted from her.

She dropped her gaze to the toe of her boots. She couldn't look at those warm brown eyes, not anymore, because she'd lunged at him even when she knew that wasn't what he meant, that he would never insinuate she didn't care about Shaun. He'd just been unfortunate enough to strike a nerve, raw and inflamed, and whether it was from guilt or something else, she felt herself unraveling for the second time that day, powerless to stop it.

”Actually... he’s gone.” It was out of her mouth of its own accord, like it wasn’t possible to bottle so much inside even though she felt like she was nothing but a vacuous shell. But she had to watch what she said. The Brotherhood was still blissfully unaware of Shaun’s identity and that's how it had to stay.

He didn’t understand what she meant. How could he? But a gentle hand reached out and rested on her shoulder, careful but questioning. His way of telling her he was listening but not demanding she explain.

She bit her lip, searching for the right words. “He was in Diamond City and just... a courser took him.” The last part choked her on its way out. It was impossible to grasp no matter how many times she said it.

”As a hostage?”

”I don’t know. They haven't contacted me. I don't know why they did it.”

The way his brows drew together, she could tell he wasn't convinced. Knew her too well. Or maybe her deception wasn't functioning at full capacity. Understandably so but she cursed herself anyway. ”Why didn't you tell Elder Maxson?”

"It's not exactly my favorite subject at the moment. I was saving it, in case we were outnumbered. Turns out Kells doesn't mind risking me though. Ad victoriam," she smiled up at him, melancholy and empty.

The joke was in poor taste. He tilted his head just a fraction.

There it was. The craving to fold herself into him, to be comforted by familiar arms wrapping around her tightly and pulling her in like she could never be close enough. It festered in her empty chest and she closed her eyes because she was sure she wouldn't get it. There was nothing to do but let it pass. She was trying but he put a hand on her other shoulder and then everything was so much worse. It wasn't what she wanted, not at all. Just a weak substitute. It was enough to cause the tears lingering in her eyes to spill over. Embarrassing.

She hated being at the mercy of her circumstances, hated how even when she threw the crook of her arm against her mouth, it wasn't enough to stifle the sob that ripped from her throat.

And then he did draw her in. Slowly, unsure where to rest his hands and it only made her cry harder because he'd forgotten how to hold her. Finally one hand found its place on the middle of her back and the other on the back of her head against her ponytail and it was right; he'd remembered or else there were imprints there from all the times before. There was no use fighting it anymore so she buried her face into his chest and let her tears soak through his uniform. Her own arms were supporting her stomach, holding herself together like wonderglue. It was her last shred of self-sufficiency and she was holding for life. She'd readily admit she'd never have lived so long or done as much good in the Commonwealth without Deacon. He was her best friend, her life line. Without him, she'd waste away. But admitting her need for Deacon, which was mutual and always unspoken, and admitting how she needed Danse were vastly disparate. Deacon was constancy where Danse was transience, as drastically different as sobriety and intoxication. Maddening contrast. Deacon felt safe and Danse was so very risky.

Her cries quieted and she pulled away without looking at him, retreating to Arthur's quarters.

If he wanted his Elder to know, he would. She would tell him about her son. It would fuel his hatred of the Institute and he'd let her go without a fight. She knew what to expect.

Just not from Danse.

*

**March 4, 2288**

The Prydwen had a lot of attractive amenities: decent showers and weapon and armor workbenches. Nora was more impressed with the coffee. She'd only had the pleasure of sipping the bitter drink a handful of times in her life and never warm but the Brotherhood had enough to spare so she filled a mug and took a seat at an empty table. Activity on the ship had slowed with each passing hour but Nora couldn't seem to rest. Sleep was increasingly fitful and between her fatigue and her grief, her mind was in a haze and her eyes bloodshot and burning. Caffeine kept her from falling over but only barely. She lazily tracked the steam rising from her mug, following the tendrils until they dissipated into the air.

Shaun had tried coffee only days before in that same room.

She’d noticed his nose scrunching up as he forced it down his throat. "It's good," he'd said, voice strained with distaste.

It wasn't, of course. But his eyes had flicked to a man at a table nearby, drinking from his own cup and engrossed in the papers in front of him. If the soldiers did it, Shaun did it. He'd even taken to saluting her before bed and it made her nervous, made her wonder if he'd want to enlist one day.

He couldn't. Aside from all of the questionable Brotherhood doctrine, it was too risky.

Shaun wasn't human but he was hers. She couldn't love him more if he actually  _had_ come from her womb. Every spare second of her time was spent with Shaun, soaking up every milestone, every piece of his life he willingly shared with her.

Or at least, that's how it had been.

He'd need to get a haircut again soon. It was an odd thought, given the situation, but on his last visit to the Prydwen, she'd had to constantly brush dark hair back from his eyes. Would they do that for him in the Institute? Cut his hair?

Her fingers rubbed at her eyes, wiping images of Shaun away. She took her mug and retrieved a jacket from her footlocker before making her way to the forecastle.

She stepped onto the metal platform, pausing when she realized she wasn’t alone, that someone was already there.

Danse.

She retreated, stuttering. "S-sorry, I-"

"It's alright." He smiled like he was genuinely happy to see her. She bit her lip and walked forward, closing the door behind her.

"It's late."

"Too late for coffee," he quipped.

It coaxed the side of her mouth up.

"I can't sleep."

There was no implied  _tonight_ at the end of his sentence. That would be a lie. It reminded her of seeing him all those weeks ago, on watch while his partner slept, and she'd seen how haggard, how exhausted he'd looked.  She hummed her understanding.

The night was cool and refreshing and it did more for her sanity than caffeine ever could. She had the sudden urge to pour it over the side of the ship. She might've if Danse hadn't turned then and leaned his back against the railing, facing her.

"How are you?"

She cleared her throat of its sudden tightness.

His eyes lingered on hers until she broke away. He would see her hair, tangled and chaotic, tumbling down her back and the way her cup shook in her hands when she brought it to her lips and that would be answer enough. He changed the subject.

"I'm up here a lot."

“It’s nice,” she nodded.

”Not too high for you, Adler?”

The easiness was back, the hard exterior of a paladin replaced with soft edges and playful banter. Not quite Rivet City but close enough to make her knees weak. “I don’t suppose you can afford to be afraid of heights.”

”I’m not that tall.”

”Practically a skyscraper.”

He shook his head. “You’re incorrigible.”

”You know what they call you, don’t you?” she baited.

”Who?”

”Your subordinates.”

One hand reached up to scratch nervously at the back of his neck. ”I’ve... heard a few things.”

”Have you heard ‘Paladin Dictionary’? That’s my personal favorite.”

She remembered how it sounded when he laughed but the sound still ripped her open like it was the first time.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, not in the least. It was solace, soothing the the fragmented pieces, new and old, in them both. He wasn't upset at her for yesterday. He didn't hold it against her. He never did. 

She shoved a hand into her pocket and gripped the holotape inside. ”Danse?”

“Yeah?”

”I...” She turned it over a few times before she decided to pull it out. “Here.”

He took it in his hands and examined it, brushed the pads of his fingers over the letters of his name crudely scrawled on a strip of tape on the outside.  “I’m not sure I understand.”

”Just play it.”

He stared at her for a moment and then made for the door, holding it open for her to follow. She took long strides to keep up with him, regularly looking over her shoulder just to ensure no one would see when she stepped into his room.

When Danse flicked the lights on, not a thing was out of place, the whole room tidy and the bed made. Of course. He’d always been that way. So unlike her, disorder incarnate. If she had a room at HQ, it would indisputably be in shambles. It was probably why she didn't.

He sat at the terminal in the corner but she wandered, surveying his belongings as politely as possible: weapons stored away in a locker, tools neatly aligned on a dresser-arranged by size because he was _that_ meticulous-a plastic box with bottles of whiskey.

She reached for one and ran her fingers along the worn label. It was half empty. She raised an eyebrow and swallowed down the concern that he'd taken after Maxson, felt that same turmoil that drove even the strongest to their bottles night after night, the high of glory not enough to rid their hands, their eyes, their minds of the death that stubbornly clung to them.

She knew what it was to crave the deliverance to be found at the bottom of a bottle. They both had been through enough to understand that much.

She eyed the rest of the bottles: filled, unopened. No, he wasn’t Maxson.

The whiskey clinked as she returned it, nestling between the others. She turned back to questioning eyes.

“You can learn a lot about someone from their personal effects,” she explained.

He leaned back in his chair and raised an eyebrow. “And what did you learn?”

“Nothing I didn’t already know." She walked toward where he sat at his desk and leaned against it, setting her mug down next to the terminal.

He inserted the holotape and after a few moments of noiseless loading, the strum of guitar drifted quietly from the speakers. She watched his face: intently listening and then, as recognition sparked, his jaw slackened and a blush crept over his cheeks. 

”Country.”

”I... just wanted to pay you back for fixing my earrings. It's not the stuff on Diamond City Radio so I don't know how much you get to hear it.”

He looked far away, not distant but surprised. It made her heart swell to see him like that: a younger, happier Danse that fit the memories she had. He looked back to her and it made her heart pound because he wasn’t crying yet but she could see the glimmer of unshed tears.

He sat in silent reverie, listening to a song he'd heard a thousand times before-she was sure of it, hated the song even now for how often he used to play it. He opened his mouth a few times, about to speak but then closing it again.

He was going to ask her to leave. It was too much. He could see how much she cared and she shouldn’t at all because they were still far too different.

”Come here,” he said hoarsely.

There wasn’t much space between them to begin with. A few feet maybe, and she easily closed that. She wasn’t sure what to do or what he wanted but he pulled her into his lap and she let him, brought her knees to her chest and rested her head on his shoulder.

Emotion welled in her gut, stuck in her throat. “You’re so goddamned sappy, Danse.”

He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and placed a hand on her knee. It shouldn’t have been unnerving, shouldn’t have reminded her of all the years she went without it, but it did and she felt like she might fall to pieces. He rested his chin on her head and she had to squeeze her eyes shut against the tears.  _Who's sappy now, Nora?_

The holotape played through while she settled into him and when it finally clicked off, she realized Danse was breathing slowly, lulled to sleep and she didn’t know how long ago.

She sat up, trying and failing not to wake him. He was immediately alert, scanning the room but he relaxed when he met her eyes.

”Sorry,” she whispered.

“Is everything alright?”

”I should go.” She stood, feeling the prickling of blood rushing back into her legs.

He nodded and cleared his throat.

”Get some rest.”

”You, too, Adler.”

He meant that, really cared if she did and she should know because he used to.

She opened the door, checking the surrounding area carefully for curious eyes, and slipped away to her own bed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s debated whether or not synths age but I’m convinced they do because supposedly there’s absolutely no way to tell a synth from a human without digging into their brain PLUS wouldn’t it arouse a ton of suspicion if a replacement never aged?


	7. Vendetta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nora and Danse kill a courser.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s about to get real action-y the next few chapters. I love my Railroad babes but man. They’ve got a big storm comin’. *snap*
> 
> xoxo

**March 5, 2288**

The Cambridge Police Station had been cleaned up and converted-rather impressively, Nora thought-into a Brotherhood base. It was heavily fortified and the conspicuous sword and gear insignia was stamped everywhere, a shield in its own right. The hum of activity reminded her of the Prydwen and it would make her just as nervous but the paladin stomped ahead of her, an unwitting bulwark against the abuse of other soldiers.

Danse approached a scribe, towering over her in his armor as she tapped the keys of a terminal. "Haylen."

"Sir," she smiled and snapped her arm into a salute. "Heading out?"

"Affirmative. Target?"

"Greenetech Genetics. We've traced the courser signal to a gunner base.” She reached to the side of the desk and pulled out a map. “It’s not far from here.”

He nodded, taking the aged paper from her hands and studying it. “Very well. Thank you, Haylen.”

The woman’s blue eyes flicked to Nora and looked her up and down. She seemed as wary as her brothers and sisters but not nearly as vicious. Her face was soft and peaceable, out of place in the depravity of the Commonwealth. “Ad victorium, Paladin. And to you too... uh, miss.”

Nora nodded her gratitude and pulled her bandana over her nose.

Greenetech was a few miles down the road, situated near the water's edge. Most of the area had already been cleared by the knights and it offered them a brief reprieve from the constant vigilance the wasteland demanded. Danse’s power armor left imprints in the dust as he walked and Nora made a game of stepping in his footprints as she followed behind him. A breeze had picked up, gently playing with the stray hairs that had refused to remain in her ponytail. The Commonwealth generally smelled rotten and irradiated but today when the wind blew past her, she could smell hubflower-not necessarily pleasant but welcome all the same. It wasn't often she could relax this way, release the tension that coiled into her back and shoulders tighter and tighter, an organic noose threatening to strangle her. With every deep breath, her muscles loosened a fraction until she almost felt like it was all bearable, like she wasn't Atlas shouldering her own impossibly heavy world as it slipped out of balance.

The paladin alerted her to the architecture they were passing. He was something of a tour guide, she realized, spouting off facts and dates and names she couldn’t be bothered to remember. It wasn’t like him to rattle on so much, or at least he hadn’t in the glowing sea. But this trip was much different. This time they were alone. This time they weren’t at each other’s throats. She wondered if it was comfort or nerves that were to blame for his history lessons.

Either way, she let him talk just to drown out all of her thoughts, still reeling at the loss of Shaun. Something about the deep rumble of his voice kept the madness at bay, kept her grounded and maybe he could tell that she needed that.

Every step lead her closer to the one that may or may not have taken her son but dammit if they wouldn’t pay for it like they did. Her fingers twitched.

Danse gestured to a door. She crouched, rifle against her shoulder and ready-no, eager-to fire.

The entrance wasn't guarded. Only debris and a body or two. It was suspiciously quiet until they found their way to the second floor.

All hell broke loose.

Turrets. Gunners. Somewhere, someone announced the location of the courser over a loudspeaker but she knew it wasn't to help them. One of the gunners rushed at her with a pipe in his fist and she fired three bullets but only one hit and it was a neck shot. She hadn't meant to rip a hole through his windpipe but good intentions did nothing for the man splayed helplessly on the floor. He clutched at his throat desperately as if he might be able to staunch the rush of blood but it kept pumping red until the floor around him was drenched in it. She could only stare at what she'd done. Half of her was screaming to patch him up but it was far too late and she was rooted to the floor anyway, frozen until he went limp.

Danse stepped in front of her and metallic pings reverberated as bullets ricocheted from his armor. "What the hell are you doing, Adler? I need you alert."

Right. She tore her eyes from the body.

He turned and fired at two gunners across the bridge. She leaned around him, trying to help but she was shaking, violent pulses of muscle rippling through her hands, and she couldn't aim. Laser fire pierced the chest of one and the woman fell at the feet of her partner, still shooting rapidly at Danse as he drew closer. One shot to the knee took him down and another to the head dispatched him, body slumping forward in defeat.

Every floor they climbed brought more gunners. She was trying to shake the haze from her mind to no avail, missing almost every shot. Danse stayed ahead of her and if he knew he was doing most of the work, he didn’t say it. He offered the occasional glance back, confirming she was still there, but as long as she kept moving, he seemed satisfied.

The courser was easily identifiable in his stark black getup. A handful of gunners were tied up on the floor around him and he was trying to break into the room that the synth he’d come for had taken cover in but when Nora entered, his eyes found hers. She walked up to him quickly and he was about to speak when she aimed her pistol at his chest and fired. She could see him stumbling back into the wall through the tears welling up and blurring her vision. His hand reached for a stealth boy tucked away at his hip but she wasted no time as she fired again, puncturing the device. Another bullet ripped through his chest and she fired again and again until his body was one bloody wound and Danse was calling her name and sturdy hands disarmed her.

He lightly squeezed her shoulders and asked her a question but she couldn’t hear anymore. She stared into the eyes of his helmet and past them and then she ordered him to take care of the gunners and get the chip while she searched for the password to the terminal.

Danse obeyed and let her work without a word, even as the synth walked out of the building-unusual, for him, not to launch into a speech about the dangers they presented to the Commonwealth. She didn’t dwell on it. Instead, she began picking through the bodies on the floor, looting every bullet and cap. He didn’t help, only observed.

He didn’t speak in the elevator but she felt the weight of his gaze on her. When they reached the exit, a radstorm was in full force, blowing wildly and flinging debris about. Contaminated air rushed into the building and Nora burst into a coughing fit. The pain in her shin flared up, stinging as the rads made contact with the scar tissue there, far too familiar for her body's liking.

”We shouldn't travel in these conditions. We’ll need to stay here for the night,” Danse said, forcing the door back against the relentless gale outside. He guided her away from the exit, supporting her as she limped along into a corner of the room. “I'll administer Radaway.”

He was pushing the release and stepping out of his suit before she she could protest. He rummaged through his belongings behind his chest plate and produced an IV bag of red-brown liquid. Danse sat against the wall at her side and she winced as he pulled her onto his lap, sure hands sticking her arm with the needle. There was nowhere to set the bag as it drained into her so he settled for holding it, propping his elbow on his knee and leaning into his knuckles.

They sat with only the ominous crackle of the storm outside to break the silence, both consumed by their own thoughts. Nora bit her lip, an attempt to suppress the anxiety, to punish her nerves for jumbling and twisting under her skin. After all she'd been through, it shouldn't be now that she would falter under the pressure. She'd always imagined herself much stronger. Immune, even. It was all catching up with her now. Around her, Danse was just as tense. One hand fiddled mindlessly with a piece of concrete on the floor next to them until she felt like she might explode if he didn’t say what was on his mind, chew her out for her waste of precious ammo and berate her for letting the synth free.

”I don’t know why I did it,” she started, voice cracking. “I just... I know he probably didn’t take Shaun but that’s all I could see when I actually looked at him.”

Danse nodded. He stared down at her with profound sorrow plain on his face and it cut her to her core. 

She couldn’t cry anymore. She had nothing left but she still felt her eyes stinging like she might somehow. “I just wanted... justice. Or revenge. It's all the same in the wasteland, isn't it?"

He shifted under her. She was making him uncomfortable but she was finally being real. Hadn't that been what he'd traded her for? A Fancy Lads for the truth. For trust, because what they’d had had been squandered. This was starting over, a clean slate. Maybe he wouldn't like it but she'd already started and it felt right. If any man deserved her honesty, it was Danse. Not always understanding but  _always_ genuine. And if he was here, after everything, making sure she was okay, holding her up as much as her own bones, he wouldn't abandon her again.

She pulled her bandana down to her neck. "You're a good man," she whispered.

"I... thank you."

"It's a damn curse, really. Makes it hard to lie to you. But I have to."

"I understand.” But he didn't. She could tell because he wasn't looking at her anymore and his hand went back to playing with that fucking concrete. It hurt him, maybe, that she wasn't truthful or else he was angry.

She sat up straight and leaned away from his chest. The distance was meager but she needed it to say what she was working up to. "Maybe I don't have to but I should. If I didn't... Well. I don't know. But I hate it."

"I'd never hurt you, Nora."

"Unless I was a synth," she said, but it came out like a question, daring him to say otherwise.

"If you were..." he started, pausing to search for words that never came. It didn't matter. It was enough. She knew what was at the end of that sentence. He couldn't kill her. It wasn't entirely a surprise; when he'd had to kill Cutler, something in him shifted. Everything was more precious, more fragile. It's what made her decision to join the Railroad so excruciating. And now she knew he couldn't do it again, couldn't hurt someone that close to him. It was the push she needed.

"I need to tell you something," she said, eyes holding his, tone low and serious. "Shaun... I didn't  _give birth_ to him."

That earned her a confused glance.

"Actually," she continued, "no one did. He's a synth."

His face hardened and he stared angrily into the floor and she was surprised it didn’t collapse under it.

"I really didn't want to lie about him but... I had to protect him. Turns out I'm kind of shit at that anyway, huh? He came to HQ six years ago and Deacon and I were supposed to take him to a family. But when we got there, he wouldn't let go of me so I just... took him. He was so small at the time. He grows fast-isn't that amazing? First child synth I'd ever seen and he decided I needed him. And I did."

He rubbed at his temple. "You shouldn't have put me in this position."

"You thought he was yours. He was, even if it was only for a few hours. I trust you."

He was quiet and every second that ticked by drew her eyebrows closer together until he looked down to see her concerned expression studying him, hoping she hadn't made a mistake. "What do you want from me, Nora?"

A tear slipped from her eye and curved around her jaw while she decided what to say but the truth was, she didn't know.

Acceptance, maybe. Some kind of grand speech about how much he'd ached during those ten years, that he'd missed her terribly and it didn't matter that she was Railroad. Or reassurance, promises that he'd keep this time, that he wasn't going anywhere because how could he without her? Anything to let her know that she was as much his weakness as he was hers.

He sighed and let her lean back against him. A good sign.

"I’m tired.”

”You can sleep,” Danse offered stiffly. “We cleared the building.”

”Not that kind,” she shook her head. “I’m so tired of all of this... war. It’ll never stop. Violence never has its fill...” Every life she’d seen fade to black replayed in her mind, eyes glazed over and distant, overwhelming her until the vision shifted and she was confronted with everything she’d lost. Her parents, her sister, Danse, her friends, Shaun, Danse, Danse, Danse...

Not Danse. He was there, cradling her, so close that she could smell him and he smelled like he used to: woodsy, like sweat and ozone and hard work and loyalty. It brought her back to the Muddy Rudder, to Rivet City and dancing and tongues mingling and the way he looked at her when he walked into the bank after being gone too long. How he’d leave his undershirts strewn around the room and she’d tuck some away to wear when he inevitably left, the way he’d shift in his sleep and nearly suffocate her, the intense shade of red that bloomed over his cheeks when she teased him. It was all so clear and so clearly gone. It punched a hole through her middle but when she looked up at him to ease the ache, he was breathing deeper and his eyebrows were furrowed the way they did was he was deep in concentration.

She nearly asked him what he was thinking but his eyes dropped from hers to her mouth. She cocked an eyebrow, letting him know it was okay, that he had permission so he leaned slowly into her and when their lips collided, it was chaste. This was Danse, after all, careful soldier that he was, and he shouldn’t have kissed her at all.

He pulled back before she was ready, before her brain caught up to her body and registered what he was doing, and pressed his lips into her hair.

*

**March 6, 2288**

“Finished,” Deacon exclaimed.

”Already?”

"Good to go." Tinker Tom ejected the holotape and inspected it before handing it to Nora and returning to his work.

”It’s not that hard, Nor,” Deacon murmured under his breath. “Don’t give him too much credit, it'll go straight to his head.”

”Ha! I heard that.”

Nora grinned and kissed Deacon’s cheek. “You guys are the best.”

He leaned back, balancing his chair on two legs and bringing his hands behind his head. ”I am pretty great.”

She turned to pack the tape in her bag along with the weapons and ammo she’d set out on the desk beside Tinker’s terminal. The next time she’d return to HQ would be after infiltrating the Institute. It was hard to leave; it felt like home but she knew it wasn’t because Shaun wasn't there.

”Hey,” Deacon started.

Not like him. He was all shifty suddenly, hands in his hair and looking at the ground.

She swung her bag over her shoulder and stood. ”What is it, Deeks?” 

”I’m... worried about you.”

Just like everyone else. There wasn’t a day that went by without some new apology uttered by a stranger or a fresh pair of eyes full of pity as they looked her over. The forlorn mother. The patron saint of the pitiful missing. How damned strange it should happen now when loss had become mundane, almost expected. “I’m okay. We’ll get him back. I’ll find-“

”This isn’t about Shaun.”

She couldn’t imagine what else would have him so worked up. “Then... then what?”

”You need to be careful with him, Nor. He’s still Brotherhood.”

One eyebrow shot up in surprise.

It was meant to warn him but he continued. ”I mean it. At the end of the day, he’ll always choose them. And I care about you so I feel like I have to tell you that. His-“

”No, I get it, Deacon, and you can stop,” she growled.

”Aw, c’mon, Nora. I-“

”Vertibird’s waiting on me.” She double checked her clip and flipped her safety off. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

He was calling her name, apologizing and begging her to just wait but she didn’t. She crunched across the dead landscape torward the vertibird. It couldn't very well have been allowed to land closer to HQ for risk of giving their position away but the miles between Deacon's pleas and the aircraft were littered with turbulent emotions, too many, disorienting and searing her from the inside out. She’d already told herself more than he ever could. Her every thought was a lecture, a tirade, scolding herself because she knew exactly how stupid she was.

Dez greeted her as she slid into the vertibird but she didn’t acknowledge her superior. She stared out into the blackness and she knew somewhere in it was Boston but it was obscured from her. Dark and empty. But probably Boston. A dark and empty Boston.

”So Deacon talked to you, huh?”

”Christ. You two plotting?” Nora leaned her head back and sighed, defeated.

She laughed dryly. “I told him not to. Never one to do what you’re told. But that’s precisely what makes you Railroad material.”

A compliment. Nora faced her, all nervous energy. She thought she knew what Dez would say and it wasn't that.

”I saw you in his aftermath. The first time was brutal. A second might be worse. The fact is that nothing about your situation or his is different than it was 10 years ago. Your loyalties are divided and we’re under the added pressure of closing in on the Institute."

She let her eyes fall closed because there was no defense for her, nothing to say that wasn’t dishonest and she couldn’t stomach lying to Dez.

“We’re family. Deacon’s just looking out for you. He’s worried what will happen if Maxson finds out. I’m worried if he doesn’t.”

“...what?”

”If Arthur realizes you’ve got something with Danse, you can bet you’ll never see the airport again. But what if he doesn’t? We find Shaun and destroy the Institute and then what? He’s going to parent a synth with you? Come live in Diamond City? Continue to work against you? I don’t think so,” she mused, tapping the ashes from her cigarette. “You’ve been my right hand woman for years. I trust you completely. But that doesn’t mean it’s wise.”

Nora picked at the sleeve of her jacket, faded and threadbare from the nervous habit.

”I know what you’re going to do. And I won’t try and stop you. But you should consider what kind of future this means.”

”How did you even know?” she asked weakly.

”Deacon saw you leaving his quarters a few nights ago.”

 _The_ _fucking_   _spy_. “Dez, I know what it looks like but I swear, nothing happened. I just-“

”It’s nobody’s business what happened. But Nora,” she stared her down with a fiery intensity, a jarring reflection of the impassioned mother within herself, “be careful.”

She nodded and turned her head to the side. The air whipped around, manic as her heartbeat, but the coolness of it soothed the heat of her embarrassment. She took deep, controlled breaths-in through the nose, out through the mouth, the way Amari taught her-because they were the only things she could control at this point. Too much damn crying these days. Her hand swiped angrily at her wet cheeks. She lied to herself so often: no, she didn’t care about him, she didn’t want that piecemeal family-her and Shaun and Danse-to live whatever semblance of normalcy they could manage, she didn’t want to try again. It didn’t fool her anymore and, evidently, it had never fooled her friends.

The vertibird docking jarred her from her thoughts. The rattle of metal as the landing arm gripped it and the unsettling way it rocked always made her reach for the handles inside. Desdemona didn’t, fearlessly disembarking and not looking back as she disappeared into the ship because she knew just how far to press Nora without tipping her over the edge. It wasn’t rude, not from her. It was space and privacy and Nora appreciated the gesture.

Her bag slung over one shoulder, she made her way to her bed. Her feet dragged under the weight of the exhaustion concentrated in her limbs and she watched them because she didn’t want to look up to find dark eyes watching, soft and kind and smoldering like warm amber, happy to see her. Not while she was working through all the logistics of what that meant.

She dropped onto the edge of her mattress and starting undoing her boots.

”You’re back.”

Him.

He’d found her anyway. Still bent down and working at the knots in her laces, she could see his boots stop feet away.

“Yeah.”

”I was hoping I could speak with you about something.”

 _No_. _Not_ _now_. _Your_ _timing_ _is_ _awful_ , _paladin_ , _I’m_ _sorry_. “Sure. What is it?”

”I’d... rather not speak here.” He eyed the beds around her, full of unconscious bodies snoring and tossing and mumbling gibberish in their sleep.

He led her down the stairs and through the corridors of the Prydwen to his quarters. He cast a nervous glance around as he held the door for her, as concerned over how they were perceived as she was.

The sound of the latch catching was loud in the quiet of his room. It seemed to echo against the walls before suddenly dropping off and leaving only the scratch of fabric as Danse brought a hand to the back of his neck.

”You’ll be leaving soon,” he said.

She nodded. “Whenever the relay is done.”

”I’m... I need you to be careful.”

”I’m never careful, don’t you know?” she grinned playfully, propping a hand on her hip.

”Nora, I mean it,” he countered sternly. He reached into his locker and pulled out a laser rifle. “I want you to take this with you.”

It was heavy in her hands and her fingers reverently traced the scratches and dents in the barrel, scars to match the ones in his own rough skin, light slashes that crisscrossed and marred them both like violent brushstrokes across a tragic canvas. She had guns, ones she was comfortable using, but that wasn’t the point.  _“_ Don’t you need this?”

“Negative. This isn’t the only weapon at my disposal. What I need is for you to make it back in one piece.”

His feet took tentative steps towards her, arms jerking from his sides like he meant to reach for her. When he did, it lit her skin on fire and she put her hand over where his knuckles brushed her cheek just to smother the flames.

It wasn’t the goodbye of the old world movies. He didn’t throw her over his arm and kiss her senseless; no, his goodbye was entirely his own. It was reserved and intimate and delicate enough to wreck her.

It was something to live for if she couldn’t save Shaun.

 _Home_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I headcannon Nora and Deacon and Glory have a rock band together. Dez is the supportive band mom. It’s adorable.


	8. Take Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nora travels to the Institute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's playlist included Busy Bees by Silversun Pickups. It's a mood, angsty and sad just like Danse.
> 
> This week I had some major writer's block and I wanna blame it on all the essays I had to write. They stole all of my time and creativity. Ugh. So I hope that isn't too obvious. Sorry, y'all. It’s probably not as bad as I think it is but I'll still probably come back and edit this when I'm less exhausted. I’m a perfectionist but I wanted you to have an update so here we are.
> 
> xoxo

**March 7, 2288**  

Danse slept alone. Always, in fact, with the exception of the nights in the wastes in the company of his team or a partner. Desolation and dust would fill the gaps between his bedroll and the next and nothing but Righteous Authority and a purified water was ever close enough to reach for in those moments. At first, it had pained him; when Nora had left and he knew it didn't matter if he was in the field or Rivet City because there was no warm body to curl into anymore. Not for him. He was lulled to sleep by the roaring in his ears, waves of panic that ebbed and flowed and tossed him about haphazardly until he'd swallowed too much water and unconsciousness enveloped him. And then he'd adapted, learned to swim and grown accustomed to the lapping of the water. 

The loneliness of it all had faded into oblivion until the day he woke up and threw his arm into the emptiness next to him.

It took a moment for him to realize why, that his body had acted on impulse and amnesia because no one was there, hadn’t been for years and even then, never on the Prydwen.

He ran a hand down his face and groaned. He needed a strategy for Nora because her near constant presence had been tearing him in two, a clean split down the middle and he was useless to anyone like that. Maxson would be furious with him and for good reason. Duty was sacrifice, he knew it well, had felt those words as they'd spilled over his own lips countless times. But sacrificing something-some _one_ , Nora-on the altar of brotherhood twice would inevitably take him with her. One way or the other, he was going to end up in pieces.

He burned the conflict away, pushed his body farther than his usual morning exercises but his effort was undone when he walked into the mess.

Nora was there, lounging at a table with her feet propped up on the chair across from her, nonchalantly thumbing through stacks of papers and humming to herself. He didn't sit by her for appearances, for the boundaries he needed to maintain, but the only empty table was beside her.

She didn’t look up when he lowered himself into his seat but he saw the corner of her lips pull up and he knew she’d noticed him. It was a moment before she addressed him and even then, her eyes stayed buried in the documents before her.

”Paladin.”

He cleared his throat. “Adler.”

She brought her mug to her lips. “Sleep well?”

”Hardly.”

“I’d say not. It’s too early for that, isn't it?”

”PT in 15,” he muttered.

”Mmm,” she nodded, flipping a paper over and feigning interest in the scribbled words there. “Maxson _would_ be so sadistic.”

She was taunting him, sharp-witted as they come. Her words were meant to rile him up but they weren’t as scathing as they used to be because now they had an understanding. It was made of the little things: of holotapes and earrings and closed-mouth kisses. Reserved, watered-down and diluted. Muffled echoes of Rivet City. So little affection escaped through the cracks of the walls between them and when it did, it was cloaked in so many layers of ambiguity that he spent his nights wondering if he’d somehow invented the tenderness in her eyes.

But he wasn’t imagining her now, fighting back a smile. He was sure of it because she opened a folder and held it in front of her face, blocking her expression from his view and from the others around them.

”I doubt the Railroad offers such rigorous training. You’re welcome to join if you feel you could keep up.”

”More than one way to train physically, isn’t there, Paladin?”

He choked on his coffee, drawing the eyes of those nearby. Scribe Grayson asked if he was alright and he nodded in response, the red on his face as much from coughing as it was from Nora's comment.

The folder fully concealed her face by the time he recovered but he recognized the amusement in her words. “Still a prude, I see.”

”Some would call it decency.”

She shrugged and when she dropped the file back down to the table, she had completely collected herself. “Never heard of it.”

"I don't suppose you have."

”I should be going,” she mused, packing the papers into her backpack. “I’m supposed to be on standby at the airport already. Something about invading the Institute.”

The reminder tensed the muscles in his shoulders, chased his pulse into a sprint, just as nervous as when he'd first heard her say it. But he couldn't convince her to stay, to let someone else- _anyone else, dammit_ -go in her place. It would be wasted breath and they both knew it.

"...take care, Nora."

It made her flinch and her hand paused on the zipper of her bag. "I promise."

A heartbeat passed and then she was gone, her footsteps fading down the hallway behind him. He waited, tapped his foot and counted because there was nothing else to keep him from following her and soaking up every small interaction before she left. When he'd counted to 300, he stood and placed his mug with the other dishes. He made for the flight deck, climbing into a vertibird just before it pulled away from the Prydwen.

The firm cement of the airport under his boots was reassuring. Solid even if he wasn't. Just outside of the barricades, initiates and knights milled about, talking and yawning and straightening up when he passed by.

”I trust you’ve already stretched.”

 The response was immediate, in perfect unison the way they'd been trained. “Yes, sir."

His eyes scanned the group as he counted those present. ”Then warm-up. Five laps.”

A few of the newer recruits groaned but the soldiers obeyed, breaking into a jog around the perimeter of the airport.

Rays of sun were just breaking over the horizon, landing on the water and igniting it. Something sacred, spiritual even, a serene backdrop to the ugliness of the Commonwealth. The kind of view that kept Danse volunteering for the morning shift. He kept track of the soldiers that filed back onto the beach, added the numbers in his head. When the last initiate returned, he was still one short. All he needed was a cursory glance to know who it was.

”Where’s Andrews?”

A few knights exchanged amused glances.

”He’s healing from his... injury,” Knight Hammond snickered.

”Injury?”

Their gaze followed movement behind him and when Danse turned, he saw Andrews walking slowly toward the rest of the group, hands balled into fists.

”Is there a problem, Andrews?”

He shook his head, refusing to make eye contact with the paladin. “No, sir.”

”Are you injured?”

Laughter erupted from the group and the initiate shot them a venomous glare. “I’m fine, sir. Just took a knee to the groin.”

Hazing, then. Danse squared his shoulders. “From who?”

”The Railroad leader, sir.”

More laughter broke out and Danse crossed his arms over his chest to silence them. “Unprovoked?”

”He called her a cunt,” someone shouted.

He turned to the initiate. “Soldier?”

”I did, sir,” he said, grinding his teeth against the humility.

Danse frowned. He knew Andrews and he knew Nora and it was a wonder this was the first incident he’d been made aware of. The initiate had a mouth, untamed and critical and reports to prove it. But even towering over Nora as he did, she wasn’t one to be intimidated.

”Did you finish your laps?”

”No, sir.”

”Then you’d better get the hell out of here until you do.”

He scoffed in disbelief but Danse's gaze was hard against him.

"Fall in line, Andrews, and report to Elder Maxson when you're done," he barked.

The initiate shook his head and mumbled under his breath as he broke into a pained sprint around the airport.

Danse turned to the others. "The rest of you, I want fifty pushups. Now."

They immediately dropped to the ground in obedience. Danse walked between them as they completed the set, hands clasped behind his back.

"I'm sure you're already aware," he boomed. "But any antagonism of members of the Railroad will not be tolerated. The Elder expects you to treat them with the same respect you offer any Brotherhood officer. Anything less and you can expect to be disciplined."

Their breathing was answer enough, measured from the seasoned knights and effortful panting from the recent recruits.

Few were as rebellious and openly insubordinate as Andrews. He would make an example of him and it wouldn't happen again. 

*

”Paladin!”

The word was catapulted across the expanse of the airport, bouncing from the concrete to his ears, its source a scribe, breathless and sprinting towards him.

Then it was urgent.

Then the relay was finished.

His chest tightened, barely containing the implications of that statement. They thrashed against his ribcage and pummeled his lungs so that by the time the scribe reached him, their breath came at the same sharp staccato.

”Paladin,” he wheezed. “Elder Maxson and Proctor Ingram requested you in the ruins.”

The confirmation of what he’d known was brutal but to show it was to raise suspicion so he swallowed his fear, like broken glass as it went, scraping him raw to the point of choking. He didn’t open his mouth to thank the man as he usually did, just patted his shoulder and walked toward the transporter. Scrap metal and gadgets that he was supposed to entrust everything to. It was visible from anywhere, too proud to held by the centuries old walls that crumbled around it.

She looked just as proud at its side.

Nora always held herself that way, the swagger of a man twice her size and the fortitude of one with a nuclear payload at her disposal. Foolhardy, he thought. Reckless, irresponsible, beautiful.

Elder Maxson spoke to her quietly and she nodded her understanding. He wasn’t close enough to hear but it was no doubt a briefing on Dr. Li, instructions to persuade her to return to the Brotherhood. He handed her a holotape and she stared down at it as he talked.

Desdemona placed a hand on Nora’s shoulder and when the elder finally stepped aside, she pulled her into an embrace. It went on far too long, like she really didn't expect Nora to return and he couldn't imagine that possibility, couldn't hold it because it was far too heavy and he'd already been handed a substantial burden over the course of his life. If he thought losing her to radiation would be grueling, losing her to the Institute would be debilitating. There wouldn't be anything left. Nothing to bury, no pictures to remind him what the exact shade of her skin had been. Just memories, corruptible and muddied by time, decaying as easily as the natural world around shockwaves of nukes. They weren't enough to keep the dead alive. He knew it like he knew his own body, tried too many times and been unsuccessful just as often.

He waited, stayed back against the wall. Any closer and he might forget that he wasn't allowed a farewell because he wasn't supposed to know her like he did and wasn't supposed to care outside of professionalism.

He did.

Nora pulled out of Desdemona's arms. Her cheeks were wet but her eyes weren't puffy because they weren't her tears. She turned to look at Ingram, only managing to glance at the proctor before she noticed him a few feet behind her.

He stepped forward, brow furrowed, and gave her a salute. "Ad victoriam, Adler."

The battle cry sounded strained, steeped in layers of anxious expectation and she saw it. She didn't say anything, just dropped her backpack to the floor and pulled the zipper open enough that he could see the stock of Righteous Authority as she slipped the Network Scanner holotape into an inside pocket. She looked up at him, a knowing smile tugging at her lips.

He felt the eyes on him like cold steel against his throat and just as chilling because the gaze was Maxson's. Danse swallowed under it, realized too late that he'd _seen_. But a look on its own wasn't incriminating; Arthur could only have a hunch and he wouldn't confront him with only vague evidence.

"Okay," Nora breathed. "I'm ready."

Maxson nodded at Ingram and she walked to the console as Nora stepped onto the reflector platform.

The machine hummed to life and energy sizzled from it in menacing blue bolts. He didn't think he could watch but it was impossible to look anywhere else.

When it happened, when pieces of Nora ripped from their biological seams and reformed where he couldn’t see and where he couldn't protect her, it was instantaneous, less sight than sound. Like the hiss of flame extinguished and it wrung his heart out. Dry as the Mojave, he thought, the way it cracked in her absence.

No one moved for a long moment, shock and worry congealing in the silence.

Maxson turned to Ingram. ”Did it work?”

She studied the blinking lights on the console. “From what I can tell... yes.”

”Then we wait,” he nodded.

”Five days,” Desdemona said, “and then I’m going in myself.”

Ingram scoffed. ”The Institute won’t make the same mistake twice. You can’t just kill another courser-“

“I’ll find a way,” she growled, stuffing a cigarette between her lips and stalking off.

From his peripheral, he saw Maxson gesture for Ingram and himself to follow the elder out of the ruins but Danse faltered, couldn’t look away from Nora had been only moments before because that may well have been his last glimpse of her.

Arthur put a hand on Danse’s shoulder. It was meant as an order to return to his duties but when he met his eyes, they narrowed and flitted over his face suspiciously.

”Everything alright, Danse?”

It wasn’t the genuine concern of his friend. It was the test of his superior, probing for gaps in his defenses, for a divided loyalty that he already suspected.

Danse nodded. “Yes, sir.”

"Good."

The elder stepped around him, Ingram in tow, and Danse steeled himself before he pivoted to join them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m putting lots of Deacon in the next chapter because I can and I MISS HIM.
> 
> xoxo


	9. Contingency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deacon and Danse have a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I actually hated Deacon at first. He's, ya know, a liar. But he grew on me like... I dunno, a third arm? Get it? Radiation jokes. Anyway.
> 
> I’m continuing to edit part one and it’s a million times better now although I’m still not fully satisfied. BUT, that said, there’s so many places in part two that reference back to it that if you were holding out to read it, you might as well just go ahead. I’ll keep you updated.
> 
> Thanks as always for indulging me!
> 
> xoxo

**March 10, 2288**

Danse pressed his thumb and forefinger into his eyes as he trudged down the halls of the Prydwen. It was eerily quiet but not unexpected for the early hour. Most of the soldiers progressed serenely through REM cycles a floor above him but the paladin had been unable to manage the same escape for the pounding in his head.

If sleep wouldn’t come, refused to subdue the ache or temporarily relieve him of the pain, then food might. Coffee, at least, would be warm and gratifying and the mess staff would thank him for brewing the first pots.

He’d spent the better part of the last few days assisting Ingram with resurrecting Liberty Prime. When he blinked, he saw every groove in the metal, every dent and scratch, memorized because he’d been staring at them for hours at a time. As it was, they had nothing more to show for their efforts than dismembered robotic limbs and tangled circuitry. He knew Ingram was at her wit’s end; they all were and they dealt with the mounting pressure of imminent war differently. Teagan’s coping mechanism particularly chaffed his nerves and it was all he could do not to chew the man out.

"Better not come back if she doesn’t bring Li,“ he’d muttered, spewing more vitriol for their allies than the Institute itself. Strange, given that they were poised to turn the latter into a crater. And how completely backwards that if he’d made any challenge at all, Danse would be the one under heavy scrutiny and not the notoriously intractable proctor.

Because Maxson knew.

He saw it in the way his eyes turned grim when they looked him over, inspected him just a breath longer than normal. Frigid inquiry where there had once been camaraderie. It was only a matter of evidence. So they would both wait, hold their breath, for truth that Danse had never before withheld.

The stakes were higher now. Someone important on the line to get caught in the crossfire.

But Nora was away, and as much as he worried, he was glad it was Deacon at the airport. Maxson didn't find him nearly as palatable as Nora and usually left him to his own devices. Anyone attempting to draw something out of Deacon was fed lies and the elder knew as much. It was useless to prod him, to get him to reveal anything and while it was morally reprehensible in the paladin’s eyes, he wouldn’t protest. It kept them all in the Brotherhood’s good graces.

Speak of the devil.

In a chair in the mess, the exact one Nora had sat in drowning in a sea paperwork before she’d left, Deacon reclined with his feet propped up lazily on a table. Fluorescent light reflected from his sunglasses, everpresent and quite possibly attached to his skin, and his fingers interlocked behind his head. He looked relaxed, maybe asleep, but then he spoke.

“If it isn’t my favorite tin can.”

“Deacon.”

“Service is terrible around here. What’s a guy gotta do to get an omelet?”

Danse took the chair across from the Railroad agent. He was decent company, at least, different than the soldiers he was used to in more ways than one but not all bad. And somewhere in his mind he was aware that the man was the closest to Nora he could manage to get at the moment.

“Any word?”

“Nothing. It’s driving Dez crazy. She’s gone through twice as many cigarettes as usual and that’s saying something.”

Danse hummed and rolled his shoulders. The muscles there were sore and overworked and the simple movement only emphasized the weary ache. He closed his eyes and brought a hand up to knead relief into the side of his neck. When he opened his eyes, a bottle of beer clinked on the table, Deacon sipping from his own.

“Long day.”

It wasn’t a question and Danse didn’t affirm or deny it but he couldn’t help the sigh that escaped him. Long day. Long week.

“Thought so. Robot not working out for you? Did you try turning it off and back on again?”

How he knew about Liberty Prime when the project was still unknown to most of the Brotherhood was troubling but Danse wasn’t in the frame of mind to question it. Later. “We’re hopeful Nora will return with Dr. Li.”

Deacon knocked back the rest of his beer and reached for the untouched bottle in front of Danse. “If she returns at all.”

He felt his stomach drop. “She will.”

“I like believing in miracles as much as the next guy but this is the Institute we’re talking about. They don’t usually play nice with others.”

“She’ll come back,” he repeated. “She’s capable.”

Deacon straightened. His fingers drummed an anxious beat onto the table and his other hand scratched at the skin beneath his ear. Unusual, he thought, to see the confident facade peeled back to expose a panicked interior. It lasted only a moment and then he was smirking again. “I’d pay good caps to see her rip into whoever was dumb enough to take Shaun.”

"The... Shaun,” he corrected. A synth but _Nora's_ synth and that much he would respect. “How much does he know?"

"About the Institute? About as much as everyone else. Rumors."

"Is he aware of... what he is?”

”Shit. She told you?” he groaned, throwing his head back. “Kid didn’t. Now? Who knows what those Institute bastards have done.”

What _would_ they do to one of their own? Maybe a mind wipe, perhaps scrap him for parts, or, more likely still, a bargaining chip. A handful of possible outcomes and none of them good.

“She must really trust you. Telling you about Shaun.”

Danse frowned. “I’ve kept her secret.”

"For now, anyway."

"The fact that you think I would endanger a child shows how poorly you know me."

"Maybe I don’t know you. But the Brotherhood-you talk big. Throw around words like ‘honor’. The Commonwealth’s knights in shining power armor. You seem like a stand up guy but you have to see that this isn't gonna end well. Three Railroad agents and a synth walk into a Brotherhood base...”

"What are you implying?"

“Maybe you wouldn’t hurt him but your buddies in orange wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger. On Shaun, hell, on any of us. Nora’s the only reason we even got our foot in the door."

"Elder Maxson is more considerate than you give him credit for."

”Yeah? Does he share his bed with Nora, too?”

The accusation nearly missed him but when it hit, he furrowed his brow and clenched his jaw. "Whatever you think you saw, I can assure you you’re wrong.”

"My bad," he threw up his hands in mock defense. "I’m sure you take women back to your room to play chess.”

Danse glared at him. "Nothing happened."

”She cares about you, you know. More than you care about her.”

”That couldn’t be further from the truth.”

"Like hell. You’d kill her if your boss asked nicely," he sneered. There was a severity in the way Deacon looked at him, one side of his mouth curling up slightly in disgust. A snarling mutt, protective and menacing.

"I wouldn’t."

Deacon scoffed and picked at the label peeling from his second beer.

He shook his head, less angry than at a loss. "What do you suggest I do, Deacon?"

"Leave," the man shrugged.

"What?"

”The Brotherhood. Leave. For Nora.”

As if it were that simple. _Tearing him_   _in_ _two_. Very much like that. And it was audible, the shallow cuts into him, patient and determined to leave him bare to his bones. He'd been straddling the line, putting off the hellish decision for as long as he could before the fissure grew too wide and he was swallowed by it. "I can’t do that."

"Didn’t think so."

Her words, aged now, thrown like a net to hold him to her years before, echoed in his own mouth. "This can still work."

"Sure. Happily ever after and all that."

He stood, turned his back on Deacon and crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t see how it’s your concern.”

"You screw this up, I'm the one picking up after you.”

He cared. That much was plain, despite the attempts at deflection. An honest affection or something deeper. "Are you in love with her?"

"It’s not like that. Are you?"

It would've been a simple answer once. A resounding yes. Absolutely, as wholeheartedly as anyone could love anyone else. A kind of thing not easily strangled, he knew, no matter how long he wrestled against it. There was something to be said for the way they'd endured time: of earthen eyes that made his face flush even when he'd seen them heavy with their betrayal once, of skin still familiar brown and lips that pulled at his own when they turned up into a smile. Connection unspoiled, slow-burning embers that refused to die out. He was attached to her in ways he couldn't have understood when he'd pursued her ten years ago. And if he'd known, would he have done anything different?

He thought of his life in terms of befores and afters, in terms of Nora. Before they’d met and after, a timeline divided along every milestone they’d shared and every one he’d grieved the loss of. She’d seen him through too much for it to be any different. Maybe, if she’d never come back, he’d have been able to rid himself of her altogether, evict the lingering, stubborn thoughts and memories, but now he would never know. It was far too late for that and he wasn’t as upset as he should be about it. He was entranced by her, passionately devoted to her wellbeing.

“She’s... very important to me.”

“She’s important to all of us,” Deacon said, suddenly soft. “But when the clock strikes midnight and Maxson ships you back home and she stays, 'important' won't be good enough.”

For once, the words didn't fall flat when they left Deacon’s mouth. It was the truth, bitter and simple and _brutal_. He could evade the decisions that needed to be made for only so long; eventually, he would need to choose between two integral underpinnings of his identity.To lose one was to be crippled; he would survive but wounded, missing pieces of himself. Not whole. If he didn't belong with his brothers and sisters, he didn't know where he belonged and the unknown might be worse than anything else.

It wasn't like he'd ever had much to begin with. And when he found anything worthwhile, he gripped it white-knuckled until it was pried from him violently. He wasn't capable of letting go without a fight and he could feel the prickle of foreboding at the back of his skull building into a frenzied throb.

Yes, he would have to choose one way or another. His hand would be forced.

There was an unknowable amount of time until then and little to do in the meantime but wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My favorite parts of this story, the ones that demanded I finally write it down, haven't even happened yet and I'm lasjdfjorijg.
> 
> Big canon-divergence ahead.
> 
> xoxo


	10. Between the Shadow and the Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nora returns from the Institute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love these two, they write themselves.
> 
> xoxo

**March 11, 2288**

He heard that when she'd appeared, it had been much the way she'd left: the same spectacle of lightning, bright beams of charge dropping her to her knees at the entrance to the airport. She'd keeled over, coughed and choked and heaved onto the ground. The knights standing guard had let her, did little beyond alerting Elder Maxson to her presence, and it had been Deacon that helped her to her feet: quaking, shivering, weeping Nora, testifying without any words at all to the depravity of the Institute and drawing every eye as she slouched against her partner, barely strong enough to keep her knees from buckling. Entropy, as Ingram had hypothesized.

Danse was almost glad he hadn't been there, hadn't seen her that way. War tempered the strong and broke the weak. He'd thought-hoped-she'd seen enough bloodshed in her lifetime to be confident she belonged to the fortunate former but this was decidedly more than what one person could be expected to cope with.

The news made its way to him almost instantly when he returned by way of conversation not meant for his ears but carelessly noisy. But duty came first. It had to, even if his eyes scanned his surroundings for silver hoops and caramel tresses. He sent Nate to Ingram with the magnet and marched into the ship, only to find his elder unexpectedly on the command deck, sagging uncharacteristically under his exhaustion and in hushed conversation with Kells.

They were all losing sleep then, it seemed.

"Sir," he brought his arm up to his chest.

Maxson lifted his head, countenance shifting into something guarded or at least more reticent than the moment before. "Paladin. Report."

"Medford Memorial Hospital has been cleared and the magnet located. It's currently in Ingram's possession."

"Excellent work. I'm eagerly awaiting Liberty Prime's completion." There was a palpable suspense in the air as Danse waited to be informed of Nora's presence. Blue eyes wrinkled at the corners, debating, and when he spoke, the words were stiff. "Nora has notified us that Dr. Li will be joining us once again."

He raised an eyebrow. "When did she return?"

"Yesterday at approximately 1300," Kells volunteered.

"Outstanding."

Arthur stepped forward and clasped his hand, pressing hard plastic into his skin. "Her debriefing. Familiarize yourself with it. We move on Bunker Hill in two days."

Whatever had transpired in the Institute, whatever Nora had seen, had led them to war. It was no longer a threat but a promise and Maxson’s eyes glinted with an excitement the paladin mirrored.

It wasn’t bloodlust. Just the first eager beats of the exhilaration of battle.

Maxson dismissed him and his objective shifted to the terminal in his quarters. Showers and meals be damned. Nervous fingers pressed the holotape into the slot below the green glow of the screen and supported his chin as he slumped back into his chair, waiting. Seconds later, the telltale tick sounded and the unfamiliar baritone of a scribe followed.

” _Institute infiltration mission debriefing, the 10th day of March, 2288. Time: 1543. Recording.”_

_”Alright, Nora. How are you feeling?”_

_..._

_”Nora?”_

_..._

_”Would you like to speak with someone trained in mental health?”_

_”...I don’t know. I’m...”_

_”Is this about your son?”_

_..._

_”Were you able to locate Shaun?”_

_”Yes. And no.”_

_”What does that mean?”_

_”It means he’s... not coming back to me. Ever.”_

_”I’m going to bring in a scribe to screen you, Nora. Once you’re feeling better, we can continue this.”_

_Click._

_”Institute infiltration mission debriefing, session two, the 11th day of March, 2288. Time: 0155. Recording.”_

_”You requested to try again. Start where you’re comfortable.”_

_”I’m still... *shaky breath* I don’t know if I can do this but I have to.”_

_”Why do you have to?”_

_”Because they’re going to attack the Railroad.”_

_”How did you learn that?”_

_”Read it on a terminal.”_

_”They let you read their files?”_

_”Of course not. Dr. Li gave me access.”_

_”You found Dr. Li. I take it that went well, then. I imagine she’s returning.”_

_”She is, yes.”_

_”Can you tell us how this started?”_

_”...I... materialized in some room. It looked like a lab. The whole place does. Like a pre-war doctor’s office straight out of a magazine. And there was a console in front of me so I loaded the network scanner into the terminal and then when I finished with that, I stepped into... there was an elevator, I think. And a voice started talking over the speakers-there’s speakers everywhere there. And...”_

_“Take your time.”_

_“It was a man. He sounded like... well, like a scientist, I guess. Cold and detached. I walked through some other rooms to find him but it wasn’t hard. It’s set up to lead you straight to him.”_

_”What did he say?”_

_”That he’d been watching me and he expected me. He said he wasn’t going to hurt me. He just wanted to talk. Then I got to his room but...”_

_..._

_*sobs*_

_”Do you need another break, Nora?”_

_”...Shaun was just... in this little glass room.”_

_”Was he alive?”_

_”He... *clears throat* No. No, he... My baby boy... That Shaun wasn’t my Shaun. He... didn’t know me. I told him I loved him and I was going to get him out of there and he screamed at me like I was some stranger.”_

_”I see. I’m terribly sorry, Nora.”_

_”Me, too.”_

_"Was the synth a replacement?"_

_"...he didn’t say."_

_”What happened next?”_

_”The man came out. Told me he was glad I was there. I don’t know. He kept saying things like that._ _I didn’t hear that much, I just kept crying and I couldn’t stop. And I asked to hold Shaun. He said a recall code and opened the door and then I didn’t want to anymore. Not like that. He looked dead or... comatose. It didn’t feel right.”_

_“That’s... understandable.”_

_"He apologized. Said it's all very experimental and they don't want to overwhelm Shaun... Jesus. I can't..."_

_"What did he want from you? Why was he glad to see you?"_

_"He wants a liaison. Someone to talk them up to the settlers topside and make them look good. Some wastelander they'll trust. They know their days are numbered with public opinion the way it is. If I agreed, he told me I could see Shaun again. We could live down there."_

_"And if you didn't agree? What then?"_

_"Then... I was free to go."_

_"Without Shaun."_

_"...without Shaun."_

_"What did you choose, Nora?"_

_"I'm... playing along."_

_"What does that mean?"_

_"It means he thinks I'm here on Institute business. But it doesn't really matter. I'll be found out as soon as our heavies show up armed to the teeth at Bunker Hill. I only did it to buy time. I poked around and I'm sure he knew I would. There wasn't a thing out of place._ _There’s_ never _anything out of place in the Institute. But he didn't count on Li's sympathies. She's the only reason I know as much as I do."_

_"You'll have the support of the Brotherhood. How many soldiers do you need?"_

_"Arthur-"_

_"The Institute is our mutual enemy. This is as much our war as it is yours. I'll spare all the manpower and supplies you require."_

_"Thank you, Arthur."_

_"What of your son?"_

_..._

_"There are ways-"_

_"No. No. I have no proof that Shaun is even in there somewhere. For all I know, he's gone and they'll be stringing me along with empty promises for the foreseeable future."_

_"You have my word that we'll tear the place apart before it's destroyed."_

_"That's... kind of you."_

_"You were there for three days. Was there anything else to report?"_

_"I talked to their people and searched anywhere I could without seeming suspicious. Most of it was a dead end. I've reported all I know."_

_"Very well. Your contributions have been essential, Nora. Recuperate aboard the Prydwen. It's the least we can do to show our gratitude."_

_Click._  

Danse leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees, rubbing his forehead. Shaun was most certainly not replaced, not if he was a synth to begin with, but she’d implied it anyway. It wasn't that she was untruthful but to call her interview honest would be a stretch. But what else could she have done? It was hardly reasonable to expect she'd prioritize anything over her son, let alone an order that wouldn't hesitate to blow the place to kingdom come, synths and all.

She was doing what she could and he wasn't about to berate her for it. Her voice in the recording sounded jaded, could only come from a woman dead on her feet and running on fumes. He was deeply familiar with burnout, let it ravage his body and mind again and again, but watching it gut Nora was a new kind of torture. It wasn't his job to check on her but suddenly she was more important than food, than hygiene, than paperwork. He all but leapt from his seat and out of his quarters, couldn't get his legs to carry him fast enough to wherever she was. 

Not in her bunk, not in the mess, not in the medbay.

He opened the door to the flight deck, abandoned at that hour, and brown hair danced into his field of vision, waving wildly from the confines of a ponytail.

Before he was close enough to reach out and touch her, he noticed the purple pooling under her eyes. She looked the picture of composure from a distance, stronger than when she'd left with her head held high and her spine tall and proud but when she turned to look at him, he could see her fully and how her circumstances were aging her.

"Hey there, sol-"

He crushed her to his chest, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and burying his face in her hair. She let out a squeak and her arms hung loosely at her sides before they settled against his back, fingers curling into the fabric there.

"Crushing me just a little, Danse."

"You're alive."

"Ye of little faith," she smirked up at him. "I can handle myself, you know."

His fingers gripped her jaw and turned her head as he searched for cuts, bruises, signs of harm.

Her smile faltered, shrunk as her eyes watered. "Hey. I’m fine.”

"I’m glad,” he nodded and stepped back, resuming the role of disinterested paladin despite the the way the lines around her mouth deepened with the effort of holding back tears. He noticed. He always noticed.

She looked down, picking at the sleeves on her jacket. “I’m not a mom anymore,” she whispered.

He wasn’t sure how much of what she’d said had been truth but seeing her that way was enough of an answer. She’d lost him, in however many ways, and while it would’ve seemed to anyone else that she was distraught, he knew her better than that, recognized that her tears were angry and not defeated.

Nora wasn’t one to give up. Some things never change.

”Mind wipe?”

She nodded solemnly. “I was so happy to find him alive. But it’s so much  _worse_ than if they’d just killed him, Danse. He’s just a project to them and dammit, I hate it.”

His hands twitched and he crossed his arms over his chest to still them.

“It was just an experiment,” she grit her teeth. “Everything’s a fucking experiment to them.”

”What do you mean?”

”They planned it. Shaun, I mean. He was supposed to ‘escape’, find some wasteland parents so they could observe his development outside of a lab. It just so happened that he chose me and I used to feel damn lucky,” she choked. “But now... I feel used. I feel like an idiot. Just some stupid variable.”

His eyes widened as he processed her words. It wasn’t all that surprising that the Institue had so little regard for ethical boundaries. Any organization willing to kidnap and replace human beings couldn’t be expected to observe a shred of decency but this seemed a new low and if it was because it was simply a new tactic he hadn’t known them to use before or that this time it was Nora being abused, he couldn’t say. His cheeks grew warm, righteous anger heating his blood, and he scratched at his jaw.

”And they’re lording him over me now,” she continued weakly. “Saying they’ll restore his memories if I comply. I’m not even sure they can do that. I’ve never...the Railroad hasn’t ever tried to _retrieve_ anything before. That’s not really our business. I should radio Amari tomorrow. She would know.”

Planning, always planning, a furious storm when she wanted to be. Pure force, the way she moved through the world, but everything burned out eventually and he could see the signs: the hollows in her cheeks, the wavering flicker beneath her irises. She was draining herself, bleeding herself dry. Zero or 100. It wasn’t sustainable.

He placed a hand over hers on the railing and curved their fingers over the metal.

She stared at their hands, chewed on her cheek. Eventually, she leaned into him. Just her shoulder at first and then after prolonged consideration, after moments of oxytocin and body heat and patience, she let her side fall against his.

She looked down, suddenly shy, and studied her boots. “You can have your gun back.”

”That’s not necessary.”

”It’s yours. It looks nice.”

”I would feel better if you kept it.”

She stepped around him and down the catwalk, casting a beckoning glance over her shoulder. She was quick to brush off the sorrow and turn her mouth up playfully at him. “Does that mean I get to rename it?”

He hesitantly followed, slowing as he neared her side to match her stride. The night wasn’t still; gunfire reverberated from some far off corner of the city below and sent a tremor through his fingers.

”I’m kidding, you know. I like Righteous Authority. Very badass.”

Danse swallowed his embarrassment but couldn’t help the reddening of his cheeks. He’d forgotten the engraving along the grip of his rifle. “Language, Adler."

That stopped her, spun her around to reveal an incredulous expression. "You know, I knew a guy in Rivet City like that. Hated swearing and ended up with the most foul-mouthed woman."

"He sounds like a fool."

"Oh, he was. Young and dumb and reckless. I kind of liked it."

"You're a magnet for trouble."

She laughed, shuffled a few inches closer to him. "It just made it all the more amusing when he actually swore. He did, behind closed doors, anyway, but-"

He cleared his throat, feeling the blush burn darker. "Inappropriate, Adler."

"-it carried sometimes when he yelled 'FUCK'," she shouted the last word over the side of the railing, hands cupped over her mouth to amplify the sound. When she looked back at him, it was to a disapproving frown that did nothing to dampen her ear-to-ear grin. "And then she got a noise complaint the next day. Good times."

He couldn't stay stern in the face of her defiance, cracked after only seconds and brought his hand up to scratch his jaw and cover the smile. “In his defense, he wasn't made aware of the complaint."

She shrugged. "She told that lady to stuff it. All's well that ends well."

The wind picked up and pieces of hair obscured her face. A good enough excuse to reach out and brush them away and then to linger. He ran his fingertips over her cheekbones and down the slope of her jaw and she leaned into into it, closed her eyes and stepped forward in blind faith.

With no one watching, after he checked and double checked, he dropped his forehead to hers. She bit her lip and turned her head to the side, to the waves of water crashing noiselessly below them. Her breath caught but then she controlled it, forced the transition to deep inhales before she pulled away altogether. "Strange."

"Hmmm?"

She shook her head, hoops bouncing against her neck, while she popped the joints in her fingers. Dark eyes avoided him, looked at anything else, anywhere but him, and when they returned to his, they shined wetly. "It's different, is all. You're different."

"Does that upset you?”

She shifted her weight onto her back leg, a move away from him. "I just wish I knew what the hell to do about it."

He wasn't any better. He didn't know what to do with the firecracker woman in front of him any more than she did him. Tumultuous, unruly, intensity incarnate and he was level analysis. None of that would matter if they were just on the same side but pitted as they were against one another, he could only see a calamitous future, only ruin and atrophy. Irreconcilable differences, he thought. Too many, a boundless amount, and theirs was a story destined for tragedy. "You're important to me, Nora."

She sighed from lips half-smiling and tinged with sadness. “I know, Danse.”

"I..." he stammered. "Our current arrangement...”

She nodded, gulping back tears.

He was just making it worse but he didn't know what to say, how to explain the conflict razing him and just how damn much he cared. She made him a great many things. Aggravated and tense and unsettled. And, more than all of that, strong and weightless and unassailable. Eyebrows drew together over disappointed eyes and demolished him, more effective than a physical blow. He could fix it. Fix them, what he broke when he left in his anger, the relationship he'd severed in a settlement in the capital wasteland. Take back what he'd lost to her or die trying because he'd lived without her and knew it was hollow.

At once, his lips were on hers, a strong hand at her neck coaxing her forward, insistent on her nearness. They were charged yet restrained and the sound of the breath leaving her lungs was the sound of surrender. She thawed under the warmth of his body and molded herself to him, pushed close until they looked like they used to, like twentysomethings entangled and holding on to their living, breathing lifeline. She threw her arms around his neck and his snaked around her waist, where they stayed even when their lips broke apart, breath mingling in the scant inches between them as they took quick and shallow gasps of air.

They didn't speak, a moment devoid of words but brimming with comprehension. If Nora doubted before, now she knew. She was important, his life bound up in hers in too many ways to undo, and come hell or high water, he was unable to be anywhere but by her side.

Beyond the Prydwen, the world was in tatters and people had precious little to their names. But this-them, tranquility and rest, the eye in a raging storm-hadn't wilted and people had fought for less.


	11. In Plain Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Railroad and the Brotherhood strategize.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did Follow post two updates in one day? YES. Because I poured myself into this to cope with the semester's anxiety. Not to get too personal but I thought grad season would be more fun. Nope. I'm suffering.
> 
> Read while listening to Civilian by Wye Oak for best results. Shorter chapter (because the next one is hella long) but LOTS of foreshadowing. Can you guess?
> 
> xoxo

**March 12, 2288**

It was cramped in Maxson’s quarters, full of proctors and officers and Railroad agents. There wasn’t enough space around his small table for all of them but those who couldn’t sit stood and stared down at the crude diagram of Bunker Hill laid out before them.

An aerial map had been drawn up by Quinlan after hours in the air. It was too risky to hover, to alert the Institute and give themselves away, so he’d ridden with patrols as they shipped out to various corners of the wasteland, passing over the settlement repeatedly until he’d been able to sketch it in its entirety. Vertibirds, while utterly terrifying in Nora’s opinion, were not without their uses.

Kells leaned over the table, fingers splayed near the edge. ”We can send troops in from the back entrance and have power armor units drop straight in from overhead.”

“There’s no guarantee they won’t just manifest by the hatch,” Desdemona challenged.

Nora nodded, eyes frantically working over the paper. “We need heavies inside from the jump.”

”Ten of our men, as well,” Maxson offered. “We can ship them out tonight to ensure they’re prepared for the onslaught.”

The congeniality between the elder and Nora was still alarming, just as unusual as it had been when he’d first suggested they fight alongside one another. She caught his eye and gave him what barely constituted as a smile, just a small twitch of cracked lips that he mimicked. ”Dez, send word to Deacon to have several teams ready to fly out tonight. Full caravan costume and more for the soldiers.”

Desdemona disappeared without a word. It was still uncomfortable, keeping up appearances and ordering her around. It hadn't been the plan to mislead the Brotherhood as to their hierarchy but correcting their mistake seemed like passing up a perfectly good opportunity. They knew less than they thought about their allies and it wouldn't bother Nora, hadn't, but Arthur had extended his assistance and he was proving to be a better man than the caricature of him that circulated the wastes. Guilt flared in her gut and she washed it down with whiskey, refocusing her mind to the task at hand.

Beside her, Danse stopped pacing and stepped toward the table. "We need to evacuate the civilians."

Maxson shook his head. "To do so this early would be too big a tell. A mass exodus will be obvious."

"I understand but-"

"Tomorrow."

Danse swallowed his protests and nodded. "Yes, sir."

"In the disguises the Railroad has, agents can help to help ready the inhabitants. Get their things packed up and ready to run," Nora suggested.

Maxson hesitated and it was then that she realized the consequences of living aboard an airship near the edge of the Commonwealth. It was far easier to accept countless graves as collateral damage when he wasn’t on the ground day after day working with the settlers and building relationships. He wasn't from here, didn't intend to stay, and if he wasn't careful, he'd leave a mess in his wake.

“That may work,” he muttered.

"It will. We have to do something."

"I'm interested in what we're gonna do with the escaped synths afterwards." Teagan shot a glare at Nora from his seat near the door. "I can get behind using them as Institute bait but then what? We just let 'em go?"

Nora twisted in her seat to stare daggers at him. "Don't get your fair share of killing in your glorified prison?"

He chuckled and narrowed his eyes. “Not that it would qualify as killing if it’s a machine. More like dismantling.”

”Biology is hard, isn't it?”

”One day, someone’s gonna shut you up."

"Proctor," Arthur chided.

Nora jumped to her feet. "God dammit, try something then. Lay a finger on anyone affiliated with the Railroad or one of our synths and I promise to put you out of your misery.”

”Woah there,” Ingram cautioned, leaning into the fray.

"That mouth ever do anything besides talk smart?"

Her blade was out and stabbed into the table beside his wrist before anyone could stop her. “Sick bast-“

”That’s enough!” Maxson stepped forward like he might restrain Nora but Danse was already subduing the seething woman. He waved a hand toward the door. “Ingram. Quinlan. Take Teagan elsewhere. We'll address this incident at a later time.”

The proctors complied, one behind Teagan and one in front to prevent him from lurching back and escalating the situation.

“I apologize. Proctor Teagan has a tendency to speak without thinking.”

He was in good company, then, with the Brotherhood. He acted no differently than the others did, unashamed and self-righteous. A culture Maxson was responsible for even if he didn’t partake. But there was strategy in censorship and Nora knew better than to think now was the time for heated accusations.

”As per our agreement, your synths won’t be harmed.”

She pulled her weapon from where it pierced his table and slipped it back into her boot. “Gracious of you.”

Kells grabbed a pencil to mark the plans they'd made thus far on the map as the atmosphere calmed, the animosity draining from the air as the distance between her and the proctor increased. It should've set Nora at ease. She should've been surer of Arthur Maxson and his ideals and his promise should've appeased her. 

But it was too much. Sitting in a room of steel, sheltered and secure, when there were countless people below whose fates were unknowingly being determined by every decision they made. War could not be contained. It wasn't possible to limit the devastation, to take it on themselves and sacrifice the willing in the place of innocents, of children and families. She looked to Danse, saw the same thoughts written on his face, the same affliction carved there in the form of lips pulled taut and eyes creased in distress. She knew they'd both had too many years of their hands in the fire, on the front lines of the war for the future, for either to be any less than disgusted by the price they were sure must be paid. His eyes met hers, pools of liquid brown too soft to be Brotherhood, and the moment was one not unlike a corner tucked away in Rivet City. 

_She heard her own voice and the way her words slurred together but she needed an answer. “Why did you join the Brotherhood?”_

_“I just... this can’t be it," he began. "The people in the wasteland are suffering and if I don’t do anything... if I stay here and scrounge to get by...”_

_Like me, she thought. Cut from the same cloth. The bombs couldn't have stolen every ounce of goodness from the world and people like them wouldn't let it be ripped away without fighting tooth and nail. How she had found him by accident, pure chance, she didn't know. S_ _he climbed off of him and rested her head against his neck and his fingers ran through her hair, chest rumbling under her when she pressed herself closer._

_It was already more than she'd ever had and more than she could stand to lose._

The memory was unbidden and knocked the breath from her. Danse or Paladin Danse, there were pieces of him left uninfected by doctrine and allegiance. Her pieces, she thought, a claim staked long ago. Still hers to this day, the way his eyes roamed her face and a light blush colored his cheeks.

She turned away first to the stony gaze of the elder and he hadn't missed their exchange. Nora forged ahead, unflinching, frightened by nothing and no one because she'd been to hell and back. She'd survived the Institute once and would do it again and whether it was her son being threatened or what little piece of bliss she'd found with Maxson's soldier, she was ready to fight.

She raised an eyebrow. A dare. "Ad victoriam, elder."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is the part where I tell you that the next chapter contains rape. NOT DETAILED. I don’t think the story requires that of me nor do I want to write that. I’ll post another neon warning in the beginning notes of chapter 12 but be aware it's coming up. I really don’t want to be the cause of someone’s mental anguish.
> 
> That said, my most favorite plot points are coming up (obviously besides all of the horrible parts) and I am DYING to share them with you. Hopefully updates will come quicker but as I said, I'm a student so no promises.
> 
> xoxo


	12. This Means War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter is kind of graphic and contains implications of rape. It does NOT go into detail (I don't think I could ever write that?) but nevertheless, it might be too much for some readers. If that's you, I set it up so that while it's still part of the story, you can skip the more intense events leading up to it. Please stop reading at the double asterisk and pick up at the next double asterisk. Otherwise, read through as usual.
> 
> The Institute, Railroad, and Brotherhood of Steel all collide at Bunker Hill.

**March** **13,** **2288**

The first time Danse heard the orders, they crackled through the radio on a vertibird bound for Bunker Hill.

_”Eliminate the Railroad. All non-Brotherhood entities are now targets.”_

It took a moment to register. The words sounded foreign, didn’t make any more sense the more he repeated them. And then, when they hit him full force, his heart stuttered. “What was that, lancer?”

The man in the cockpit briefly glanced back at the paladin, surprised he was addressing him. "Elder Maxson’s orders, sir. Shoot on sight.”

 _Shoot on sight_.

Shoot the Railroad. Shoot Nora. It was all the same and it drained the color from his face.

He trusted Maxson. There had to be reasons behind the command and the way he'd chosen to issue it. He should follow his instructions, no second thought. It's what he'd _always_ done but this time, Danse hesitated. He dropped down just outside of the settlement, still undecided, even while the other soldiers ran ahead of him into the unmistakable mayhem of battle. In any other situation, he'd have been leading the charge against the Institute but there was no mistaking what Arthur was asking him to do. It was calculated, to deliberate without the input of his paladin and then to spring orders on him when they couldn't be questioned.

He stepped into Bunker Hill and scanned the bodies. So many of them strewn across the landscape, some burned beyond recognition. The longer he stood a spectator to the violence, the higher the body count rose. Any one of them could be Nora and his stomach churned at the thought of finding her that way, slain and disfigured. At the hand of a brother, no less.

He couldn’t bring himself to fire on the heavies. He didn’t need to. They fell at twice the rate of any of the others and there was something despicable about catching them off guard. Maxson must have known as much. He wasn’t ignorant and Danse hadn’t been careful enough.

Nora was somewhere, dead or alive, and his objective shifted in an instant and consumed him: find her and get her the hell out of there.

**

Nora held her breath as she lined up her shot. With a single bullet, she dispatched the gen 1 and pulled back behind the safety of the wall to reload. She doubted the things could be bothered to trace her location, sniping as she was from a hole in the monument in the center of Bunker Hill, and she quickly repositioned herself to strike again.

A vertibird descended to her right but she didn’t pay it any mind, too focused on a synth violently attacking a Railroad heavy. Her next target.

She flexed her index finger and the machine fell to the ground. The woman, its victim, pulled herself up from the ground and checked herself for damage. And then, in an instant, she fell back, smoke rising from the gaping wound in her chest.

If she hadn’t seen the red flash, she would’ve never imagined it was the Brotherhood.

“What the hell,” she muttered, scanning the soldiers that had exited the vertibird through her scope.

A fucking initiate. Of course. Undertrained and trigger happy. The culprit leaned down to loot the corpse of valuables and she had half a mind to put him down then and there. He was lucky she had too limited a supply of ammo to indulge her disgust.

Her anger mounted as she watched another laser strike the stomach of an agent and send them to their knees. Another accident, she thought, but no. This time it was a paladin and he approached the wounded woman only to finish her off with a shot through her head.

“What the _hell_.” Nora ground her teeth as her barrel tracked the soldier. If he didn't remove his helmet first, a shot would only alert them to her position. She waited, anxious to put a bullet through his skull, but as she watched, more and more of her fellow agents were dropping at the hands of the Brotherhood.

It didn't make sense.

Her radio sputtered frantically and she pulled it to her ear to listen to the updates.

" _...by Elder Maxson. The alliance is null, take out the Brotherhood of Steel._ "

It was low, even for Arthur, turning on his friends in the chaos of combat. He only knew war, needed it, craved it like a chem. Ironic how deeply he abhorred synths when he should possess so little humanity himself.

She shoved the radio back into her jacket and resumed her position, the rifle shaking in her sweating palms. One by one, she picked off soldiers and strategically placed bullets in the gaps of power armor as it fell apart under the barrage of Railroad force. After an hour, her fingers were stiff and cramping but she kept up her rampage. Most of the battle had moved underground but she remained in place, swiftly piercing any foe that revealed themselves.

Muted footsteps ascended the stairs and by the time she looked, the soldier was ripping her gun away.

He looked familiar. Initiate Andrews. Their encounters, too numerous to relive then, flashed briefly through her mind. He must have been after some sort of revenge. She’d humiliated him before and it didn’t matter that he’d been the aggressor. Not now, when his eyes glinted dangerously. She slowly backed away and then sprinted upstairs to the weapons she'd stashed on the top landing but he was quick; all those drills he'd had to do, she supposed. He grabbed the back of her jacket and his knee forced her down onto the concrete steps. She thrashed and writhed but he threw her gun aside and restrained her hands with his own. When she desisted, he flipped her over and she took the opportunity to reach for the knife in her boot. Her fingers closed around the handle and the blade scraped up his torso as he wrestled it away from her and regained control, a vice grip on her wrists with one hand while his other tossed the weapon and landed a blow to her ribs.

She couldn't help the yelp it forced from her but she kept her mouth closed. He didn't deserve the satisfaction of hurting her. He'd always been an angry man, so hostile especially where she was concerned, and now as she stared up at him she could see he didn't intend to kill her. No, it would've been too sweet a fate to die right there. He didn't think her good enough for that.

"Shoot me." She was trying to appear collected but when the words left her mouth, they were a plea, an appeal to his better nature if he had one.

"Shut your goddamn mouth," he hissed. His free hand worked her belt and she closed her eyes against the tears threatening to overflow. She squirmed, kicked, spat at him but none of it kept him away. Nothing could spare her in the mind of man who believed in his bones that she deserved it.

She hadn't moved positions since she'd arrived. There was nowhere to go with twice as many enemies as anticipated but she should have tried. She should have run headfirst into the barrel of a Brotherhood-issued laser rifle. She should have been _anywhere_ _else_ but where she was.

Outside of the obelisk, bullets and lasers fired loudly; too loudly for anyone to hear when Nora’s will was stretched and snapped.

**

The battle was nearly over, brute force and the element of surprise leading to a swift Brotherhood victory. It didn’t taste sweet like it had all the times before. Not to Danse, because he hadn't managed to find Nora and he was still in the dark about the sudden break of the alliance. He stepped deeper into the underground tunnels, grimacing each time his weight shifted onto his right foot. The gnarly twist of his ankle had left him with a limp that could've been prevented if he hadn't had to abandon his power armor but it was useless, too heavy to be valuable, with its plates riddled with bullet holes and bent out of shape. The joint throbbed with each step and he knew that if he kept walking on it, he was going to cripple himself but medical intervention was the last thing on his mind.

He frantically scanned the bodies on the floor, as relieved as he was worried not to find Nora among them. There were fewer and fewer places to look and he was starting to wonder if the Institute took prisoners. It wasn't far-fetched to think the director resented Nora's interference in their affairs enough to abduct her.

He continued down winding hallways as quickly as he could, stepping over destroyed turrets and lifeless corpses, none of them her. He dead ended in a dimly lit room and immeditely, five guns were aimed at him.

"Stop right there," Desdemona snarled, pulling back the hammer of her revolver.

He raised his hands in surrender. “Stand down. I'm looking for Nora.”

”Oh, that’s rich. You have the audacity-“

”I didn’t know.” He leaned forward and dropped his rifle at his feet. Every instinct he had protested but he was as good as dead if he couldn’t convince them he wasn’t a threat.

”What the hell do you mean?”

”Maxson issued the orders at the last second, when the first squads were already well on their way.”

Desdemona stepped toward him, gun still drawn and tracking every minuscule shift of his body. “Why should I believe you?”

"Where’s Nora?” he huffed impatiently. 

She signaled for the others to lower their guns. They huddled together protectively and he could see how much they'd lost in the battle. The Brotherhood had decimated their numbers and left them bloody and demoralized. No wonder they they’d reacted so strongly to him.

”We don’t know if she made it. We lost contact with her.”

”You don’t know?” he repeated through gritted teeth. "Well, where was she?”

"Sniping. From the obelisk.”

He nodded and retrieved his weapon, turning to walk away when Deacon slammed into him, holding him against the wall.

“Like hell. Haven’t you done enough?” His lip curled up in resentment, the fiercest he'd ever seen the spy. "I could-"

"You need to retreat." Danse’s timbre cut through Deacon’s threat and drew the attention of the others. "All of you. There’s a Brotherhood presence above ground looting. I'll look for Nora."

Desdemona narrowed her eyes, weighed his words and searched for truth. Her expression melted from stern scrutiny to grudging acceptance. "Fine."

"No way,” Deacon gaped. “Dez-“

"No, Deacon. It’s invaluable to have a friend in the Brotherhood, especially now.  We won’t turn our noses up at that. Get us out of here, Danse, and find her.”

Deacon sighed and shook his head, reluctantly stepping back. “You heard her. Let’s get moving.”

With the Railroad on his heels, Danse wound back through the underground maze, their footsteps echoing in the empty chambers. It was eery, cold and quiet until he pushed open the hatch and the humidity of the Commonwealth air washed over him and the clinking of armor revealed soldiers just outside the building. He crouched behind the counter until it grew faint and then gestured for the others to climb out. They snuck along the walls of the building and made a break for the front gate.

"Thank you. The Railroad won't soon forget this favor," Desdemona whispered as her agents slipped into the night behind her.

He nodded and she fled the settlement, Danse closing the gate halfway behind her to block the line of sight of anyone still inside the settlement. The whine of the hinges alerted a paladin a few yards away to his location but, recognizing one another, they exchanged salutes and he continued confiscating weapons and armor from the fallen.

When Danse limped into the obelisk, he didn't make it two steps past the doorway before another barrel was aimed between his eyes.

It didn’t matter. Nora was on the other end and he’d never been so glad to see her.

"Stop or I’ll fucking shoot you."

She was a mess, her ponytail loose and lopsided and dirt and bruises littering her skin. In her leg, a knife was lodged and she'd fashioned a strip of cloth into a makeshift tourniquet secured tightly around her upper thigh. She leaned against the concrete wall to support her weight and watched him warily from behind her 10mm.

He lowered his laser rifle. “Nora. What happened?”

"What... are you joking?! The Brotherhood happened!" she snapped. "You fucking cowards! You-"

“Easy, Adler. I didn’t know."

"You're so full of shit. I can’t believe you, you and your fucking double-crossing Elder. War-mongering, racist, violent-goddamn it!” she hissed as a shaky hand flew to her wound.

"Let me help you."

She laughed bitterly. “No. I don’t want you to ever touch me again.”

He sighed. Nora kept her gun trained on him all the while attempting to hobble down the stairs. She progressed slowly and he didn't miss the tremor of her lips as she inched painstakingly toward the door.

“Maxson issued that order at the last second,” he explained. “I wasn’t involved in that decision and I didn’t engage.”

She ignored him, using her free hand to guide her injured leg down a step. Every time she jostled it, a steam of blood leaked from beneath the knife and dripped down her thigh before the torn fabric soaked it up. The sight made him distraught.

He stepped closer to her and reached an arm up to offer her assistance. “You’ll bleed out before you can make it anywhere near a doctor on foot.”

“Oh, go fuck yourself,” she bit out, reaching into her pocket and hurling something small at his chest. It bounced off, hitting the ground with a metallic clink.

He stooped to retrieve it. The holotag of  _Initiate_ _Clay_ _Andrews_. Why she had it, he wasn’t sure. They’d had a dysfunctional relationship at best and volatile at worst. His first thought was that he’d died in battle but that didn’t explain why she’d picked it up.

He examined the holotag for any clue as to why she'd kept it but he was perplexed. "I don’t understand.”

”Give it back to Clay, would you? I’m sure he’s missing it. I clawed it off of him while he was on top of me and it looks awful important. You should ask him if he enjoyed himself,” she spat, voice breaking under the strain of the implication.

Red clouded Danse’s vision, painted the night a deep crimson. The feeling was new and it surprised him how deeply it pierced. Hatred, he thought, like he’d never felt before. He couldn't bring himself to think the word but he knew what she meant, knew what had transpired and that it was likely Andrews was to blame for her leg.

But it was still just Nora in front of him and she looked only part the woman he knew. Her face was twisted in a pain he’d attributed to the knife but he’d been wrong. No, Nora knew the trauma of blades and bullets like the back of her hand. It was the pang of shame, the helplessness of violation that stole the last spark from her eyes and left them empty and dark. He could kill the man. Press his fingers into his throat just enough to make him fight for breath and draw it out until he’d drained the life he’d robbed from Nora out of him.

His eyes bored into the metal and he fought to relax his jaw so his words didn't portray how absolutely furious he was. “Nora, I... there aren’t words.”

”No, there aren’t. So stop talking and leave.”

He shoved the holotag into his pocket and refocused himself. “Negative. You’ll die.”

”Would that be the worst thing?”

The defeat in her eyes could’ve stopped his heart. This campaign against the Intitute had taken too much from her, cost her her son, her friends, her tenacity. There was still so much to be done before they finally wiped the facility from the face of the Commonwealth and for the first time, he wondered if it was worth it.

He was done arguing. He strapped his rifle across his back, climbed the stairs, and pulled her into his arms even as she kept her gun on him.

”I will, Danse, I swear I’ll pull the trigger,” she threatened shakily.

He grunted as he descended the stairs, his ankle screaming in protest. “You’ve established that.”

She shoved the barrel into his ribs and her forehead creased. He stopped before stepping out into the open and looked down at her, waiting.

”Well?”

She drew her eyebrows together angrily but tears spilled down her cheeks and she pushed the pistol into its holster around her thigh. “Damn you.”

”Your mercy is appreciated,” he mumbled, scoping the landscape. “Now, where do I go?”

”You don’t really think after all that that I’m _honestly_ going to tell you where HQ is. Are you batshit?”

”Listen to me.” He leaned against the bricks of the monument to take some pressure from his ankle and summoned every ounce of intensity not yet spent. His words were rushed and quiet and steeped in misdirected frustration. “Diamond City isn’t close enough to be viable. Goodneighbor is the second best option and even that is miles away. You came here on foot, which I assume means your base isn’t far. Our best hope for your survival is HQ. Help me help you, Nora. Please. You have my word that I won’t reveal your location.”

She mashed her lips together into a line. “Swear on Elder Maxson’s grave?”

”I swear.”

”Swear on Squad Gladius?”

He sighed. “Nora, I swear it.”

She hesitated. “The Old North Church. Down past the crypts.”

He nodded and in four limps, he had them out of Bunker Hill and into the Commonwealth, shadows concealing them from bloodthirsty creatures and Brotherhood alike. With his injury, they moved slowly and he inhaled sharply with every brief step onto his swelling foot.

She took notice. “What happened to your ankle?”

He furrowed his brow, eyes swiveling constantly in anticipation of enemies. ”I twisted it on the ladder.”

She hummed. Her arm around his neck slackened at the realization. He could’ve boarded the vertibird with the others and saved himself the pain but he hadn’t and if that didn’t speak to his loyalties, then nothing could.

“Wait here,” he mumbled, setting her on the ground against a wall, focused on dark shapes in the distance. "I don't think we're alone."

She reached for her pistol and he nodded, pulling his rifle from his back and flicking the safety off. Gravel crunched under his boots and the bloodbugs drifted closer, drawn to the sound.

"Disgusting insects!" He fired several shots at them, crippling their wings and scorching their skulls. Only one managed to zigzag enough to get close and prick him in his side but he threw an elbow against it and a final shot ended its struggle.

He slung the weapon behind his back and wiped his hand across his forehead. Flecks of blood, dirt, and sweat had accumulated and mixed, staining the orange of his flightsuit brown. He returned to Nora and kneeled to gather her into his arms again. They both looked worse for wear, deja vu striking as he recalled carrying her the same way from the glowing sea. When she’d been barely clinging to life. When they’d been more like enemies than anything amicable but he’d still been ruined by the possibility of her death. There were more parallels than he cared for because they’d been mending things long broken only to have this new development thrust them back into uncertainty.

"Just so you know,” she said bitterly, breaking him from his thoughts, “this doesn’t mean I don’t hate you. I do. I hate all of you.”

”I believe you, Nora.”

She grew quiet and when he looked down at her, she was frowning. He kept on towards the church, a lump in his throat because he’d known she was upset but hearing those words still ripped into him. But what had happened to her had been inexcusable. Not just at Bunker Hill but every incident on the Prydwen and at the airport. She’d told him she was more likely to be hurt by one of his men than a synth and at the time, he couldn’t have seen the truth of that statement.

If she hated him, he understood, no matter how deeply it cut.

After a long stretch of silence, she rested her head on his shoulder. There was immeasurable meaning in that small gesture and it filled his chest with sympathy. It was a sign that she trusted him in spite of the uniform he wore, that maybe she hated Maxson, the soldiers, the entirety of the Brotherhood of Steel, but not him. He wanted-no,  _needed_ to protect her because she trusted him and even if it was only a sliver, her trust meant everything. He was less of a man, less of himself without her faith in him and God help anyone who ever laid a finger on her again.

She pressed one palm against his chest and the hand draped around his neck gripped him and pulled her more tightly into him. Small reassurances and maybe all she needed was time. Maybe they could regain their lost ground. Maybe she was willing to try and she hadn’t given up on him.

Her pain grieved him. The injustice grieved him. The Brotherhood was supposed to set things right. Make the wasteland a better place and even if they’d won, they’d failed at Bunker Hill. He was immensely disappointed in his brothers and sisters and he understood if she needed him to prove himself. He’d do anything, had done everything he could already, to convince her he wasn’t the enemy.

Even if she hated him, having her this close was comforting. He knew she was alive and she trusted him a sliver, enough to close her eyes and rest on his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate all of the harassment and now assault Nora has endured but I think that's very much how it would be, unfortunately. The thoughts we dwell on become attitudes become actions and the BoS has pretty strong convictions that aren’t always good. Do you hear the stuff they say when you walk around the ship?? And we are quickly coming up on Blind Betrayal...
> 
> Leave your thoughts, reactions, etc. The more I break from canon, the more I wonder how it’s perceived and I’m intensely curious.
> 
> xoxo


	13. Walk the Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danse drops Nora off at HQ and returns to the Prydwen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter. Does it make up for not updating sooner?
> 
> xoxo

**March 13, 2288**

Something about Boston in disrepair ate at Danse. History, decaying before his eyes, and there wasn’t anything to be done about it. The Old North Church itself had surrendered to time and as weathered as it was, he was surprised to see it still standing, steeple proudly piercing the humid night air.

Proud, yes, but derelict and crumbling to the point that it hardly looked habitable. Danse nearly asked if she’d remembered correctly, if she hadn’t meant some other church, but a stripe of red beckoned him to the door and erased all doubt.

When he reached the front entrance, she pulled it open from her place in his arms and the pair stepped through to splintered walls and concave floors.

"How are you feeling?" he inquired, nervous in her silence. She’d hardly spoken on the trek to the church and he needed to be sure it wasn’t any indication of her health.

"I’ve... been better."

"How’s your leg?"

"My leg," she scoffed. "My leg will be fine."

Her real concerns went unspoken but he knew. Andrews had taken some unnameable thing from her and he _hated_ that. How could he hope to replace the abstract, something closer to a phantom and impossible to hold?

He couldn’t. He hated that.

But if she was feeling, then she was alive. Knowing she was still with him, enough to sound like herself even when she was a drastic and unsettling pale, kept him going. He could push past his own pain so long as she was hanging on.

He could feel the inflammation of his ankle and the simmering heat it gave off under the leather of his boot. It was unbearable, having been pushed past its limits long ago, but it couldn't have been anything compared to what Nora was feeling. She hadn't complained, given away only by her breathing. He knew she was in pain the way she sucked in suddenly if he moved her wrong and then she'd delay the exhale, focusing on the rhythm and tempo of her lungs. She had an impressively high tolerance for pain. The kind bred over years of violent clashes and conflict, remarkable even among Brotherhood veterans.

He stepped over the cold corpse of a feral and closed his eyes against the flash of white-hot pain as his weight shifted.

"What are you gonna tell Maxson?"

He stammered, hadn’t settled on an acceptable answer yet. "I don’t think he’ll believe anything I say."

"Maybe not. You’re a dreadful liar." Her smirk, taunting and light even in the worst of situations, made him hopeful. She sat taller in his arms, suddenly livelier than she’d been in hours. "Atrocious, really. We’ll have to work on that."

"What do you suggest?"

She pursed her lips pensively. "Maybe you shouldn't go back at all."

He trampled carefully through the piles of debris that had gathered in the catacombs, narrowly avoiding tripping over a discarded toolbox. Desertion was not an option. It would only confirm whatever theories the elder had but even if the Brotherhood thought him dead rather than a traitor, he wouldn't know what to do with himself. There was nowhere to go but home. To the Prydwen, to Maxson, to what few possessions he owned. He would deal with the rest.

"Danse?"

He looked down, anxious at the tone of uncertainty in her voice. She flinched as he unintentionally held her tighter.  "Yes?"

"Really. You can stay and we'll figure something out."

"I can’t, Nora."

She stared at him somberly, mashing her lips together to keep the words at bay. It was obvious she wanted to protest but she must've known he couldn't just leave. He didn't have it in him, didn't know who he was if not _Paladin_ Danse and he had a team that relied on him. She nodded slowly, accepting.

They rounded a corner and Danse's eyebrows drew together. "It's a dead end."

"Turn around," Nora instructed.

He set her on her feet carefully and she leaned forward to slide the tarnished pieces of a seal into place. Faithfully, he turned his back to her as she worked, keeping her propped up against him for balance. With the right combination, the stone wall screeched open.

The entrance to HQ was as covert and secretive as the Railroad itself. He should've surmised as much.

Danse lifted her once again to carry her through the dark corridor. Suddenly, light flickered on and flooded the room. Desdemona stood imposingly across from them, a smaller woman with a minigun posted just to her right.

Whatever she was going to say was lost the moment she laid eyes on the figure in his arms. "Nora?"

He helped her stand but she swayed and clutched at him, fingers digging into his suit. They wouldn't need to see the knife to know she wasn’t well; her cheeks were drained, colorless and washed out in the glaring light and she couldn’t even stand on her own.

Fresh fury kindled in his chest. Andrews’ doing and damn if he wouldn’t make him suffer for it.

"Dez. I’m okay."

"Jesus. You’re not," she gestured to her thigh.

Deacon interrupted, bolting past her and running up to Nora to pull her solidly against him. "Shit, Nor, what the hell happened to you?"

"Deeks," she breathed into his shoulder. They held each other for so long, too long, and Danse felt the tide of panic rising. She'd already gone hours without any medical assistance but Nora gasped and it wasn't until then that he realized she was crying.

Deacon's face creased, deep worry lines wrinkling his forehead. "Hey. Talk to me, lady."

"I can't right now, okay?" she sniffed, leaning back and wiping her cheeks.

Danse couldn’t see her expression and he was thankful because whatever Deacon saw in her face leveled him.

He cleared his throat. "She requires immediate medical attention."

Deacon reached beneath her legs to lift her but she retreated from him, shaking her head.

"Nuh-uh. He needs a stimpak. Get him one first."

"Nora-" Danse argued.

"Shush, soldier boy." She rounded on him, austere as she could manage with so little energy, and the hand not balling up Deacon’s shirt flew to her hip. Not, he imagined, unlike the way she reprimanded Shaun. "We're both shitty at taking care of ourselves so I don't want to hear it."

Deacon spared him an unfriendly glance before he sighed and jogged back into HQ.

The outside of their facility looked bleak and neglected and Danse hoped the inside was in better shape, equipped to handle the severity of her injuries. Bricks crumbled around him and he couldn't help but eye them dubiously. Not a threat to the Brotherhood on their best day, if this was any indication of the extent of their resources.

Desdemona raised an eyebrow. "You kept your word."

"Of course I did," he retorted, smarting at their lack of trust in his virtue. If she doubted him, she shouldn't have let him go after Nora at all.

"Oh, don't get pissy. You know why things have to be this way. Which leaves the question: are you going to report us?"

He scratched at his jaw. "Under the circumstances, I don't see how I can."

"With Nora here, I doubted it."

He looked to the floor, brooding.

He didn't make a habit of lying, only did so when absolutely necessary and it showed. But his clumsy attempts at bluffing had saved him at Bunker Hill. Desdemona had seen through it, transparent as glass; so long as they had Nora in their ranks, he was practically Railroad himself.

He readjusted himself and cursed when his ankle flared up.

"You got us out of a war zone still teeming with enemies. You walked all the way here on a bad ankle with more than just your own weight and for what?" she mulled aloud. "We didn't promise you anything. Our respective organizations are no longer friendly and I have no idea what sort of questions you can expect to face when you return. With that said, I'm inclined to offer you the services of Dr. Carrington before you go."

Danse looked her over skeptically but didn't dismiss her outright. There were reasons to consider the offer. It was foolish to attempt the trek to the airport in his current state and, perhaps even more salient, he was intrigued by the prospect of viewing the inside of their base for himself. But his hackles still raised at the thought of enemy territory. He would be surrounded, outnumbered, easy pickings for an ambush if they decided to finish him off.

"A response would be appreciated," she pressed.

Nora bumped her shoulder against his and reassured him with a smile.

He grimaced. "I accept on the condition that I'm able to remain armed in your compound."

"Have it your way," the redhead waved a hand over her shoulder passively, heading down the short hallway behind her.

Deacon returned, stimpak in hand, and at Desdemona’s word, he tucked it into his pocket, annoyed. He wasted no time reaching for Nora. "I hope you know what you're doing, Nor," he grunted as he cradled her, stalking after Desdemona. "Bringing that Brotherhood bastard here."

"Quit being an ass." She punched his arm. There was no power behind it and Danse’s gut flipped, hoping desperately that Carrington was competent and well-supplied.

He staggered after them, the woman still tracking him with the minigun like she hadn't heard a word of their conversation. He reached an open door where Desdemona stood alone, only stepping through when he'd shambled within a few feet of her. He followed slowly, clenching his jaw against the pain building to a fever pitch.

The interior of HQ surpassed his expectations. A shelf stocked with a decent amount of rations, functional terminals, even the odd power armor station. The room seemed full, the way agents dashed from one place to the next, but it didn’t take long for the bustling to come to a standstill as they realized who was among them. One agent slapped the man beside her until he looked up from his paperwork to Brotherhood orange. All eyes were on Desdemona, watching for her reaction.

She lit a cigarette casually. "Don’t stop on our account."

Confusion still plain on their faces, they reluctantly turned back to their tasks.

At least they respected authority.

He watched them with a reciprocal wariness, fingers itching to hold his rifle, but a shriek ripped through the air and his eyes snapped up, seeking the source. He pushed himself faster toward the sound, into a side room that functioned as a med bay.

When she came into view, she had her eyes closed, tears spilling down the sides of her face and lip caged between her teeth. A man in a white coat, presumably Dr. Carrington, was bent over her leg, the knife noticeably absent. He pressed a metal instrument into the gash and it forced another pained cry from her. She lurched forward involuntarily and Deacon grabbed her hands as they reached for her wound, holding them away. She struggled weakly, flailed and whimpered under the doctor's hands, but she wasn’t strong enough to put up her usual fight.

Danse stood helplessly by her cot. The air smelled sour, not unlike the aftermath of battle. Burning flesh, he realized. Her wound had been cauterized.

"How exactly did this happen?" Dr. Carrington inquired as he doused a rag in antiseptic.

Nora rolled her eyes. "Well, someone stabbed me."

He dabbed gently at the edges of the laceration, sighing when she whined at the sting. "You know, you don’t always have to be so contrary."

”I can’t help it,” she said sternly, fists still firmly in Deacon’s grasp. "Every time I’m in here, I’m in a fuckload of pain."

Desdemona laughed at his side, quiet giggles until Deacon turned and they both burst into a fit of hysterics.

"Oh, wha- really? What’s so funny?"

Desdemona composed herself, falling back into the seriousness Danse was used to from her. "I would say your stubbornness is in your blood but with how much you’ve lost, I think we can safely rule that out."

Nora’s mouth twitched and she pressed her lips together. "Not funny."

Dr. Carrington whirled back to toss the rag into a bucket and his eyes narrowed at the infamous Brotherhood flightsuit. "And who the hell are you?"

"Oh, this," Deacon stepped in between them and clamped a hand onto Danse’s shoulder, "is the Brotherhood’s most confused paladin. AKA, our secret weapon."

Danse frowned at the description and shrugged Deacon's hands away.

"Patch him up, Carrington," Desdemona ordered from the doorway. "He has a long trip home."

The doctor looked less than thrilled to have another patient but nonetheless, he motioned for Danse to have a seat on a nearby cot. He hoisted himself onto the thin cushion and Carrington looked him over, pinpointing his affliction with surprising accuracy. He pried Danse’s boot off, the movement hitting swollen flesh and making him wince.

"Do you need me to hold your hand, soldier boy?" Nora teased from beside him.

Danse grunted as Carrington pressed into his ankle, feeling for fractures. "Negative."

"'Secret weapon'. I like that. That’s your official RR code name."

"Nora," the doctor barked. "Close your eyes and let the Med-X work or at least _stop talking_."

Her eyelids were already drooping under the weight of the chem but she wasn’t drugged enough not to scowl at his back. She reached over and covered Danse's hand with her own. It was feeble, shaking, and he took interlaced their fingers just to stop the tremors.

It seemed to appease her. She dozed uneasily while Carrington reached for a stimpack and injected it into Danse’s ankle, whistling as it emptied, and Danse dropped his head back onto the cot to rest what little he could. The air was humid underground, not particularly conducive to sleep, but it was safe. He’d settled down in worse places.

Deacon crossed him arms and leaned back against the brick wall. "So. Why did the Brotherhood turn on us back there, Secret Weapon?"

"I already told you, I don’t know," Danse grumbled.

The doctor bandaged his ankle, quickly and expertly wrapping layers of cloth around the joint. "This is all I can do for now. I’d tell you to stay off of it but we both know that won’t happen so just give it a few hours."

"Affirmative."

Carrington looked put off by the military response but he didn’t reply. He gathered his tools and tersely skulked away without so much as a glance back.

Deacon sighed as he sank further into his chair. "Find out for us, will ya? So we know Maxson isn’t just a conniving son of a bitch."

He stared down at his hand, Nora’s fingers weaved through his.

Gray. It was all gray. So few things had been left black and white and he was left to sort through it all unassisted. He wasn’t a spy but if Railroad leadership didn’t have an explanation for Bunker Hill, then it might not be the worst thing to clue them in.

At the very least, he knew what was precious to him now, knew for damn sure what he could and could not live without. He’d felt the shifting of his priorities, tectonic in nature. It was unsettling to be so divided and though he’d never subscribed to the belief that the Brotherhood was flawless, it was no less world-shattering to become this disillusioned with it. But the more he unraveled from where he thought he belonged, the more tightly he clung to her.

Nora, he thought, as she fidgeted in her chem-induced slumber. Nora was worth all he'd been put through since she'd crept up on him at an ungodly hour at his wasteland campsite with a proposal of a treaty, worth broken ankles, worth whatever awaited him at the airport.

Worth the hell he would pay and then some.

*

**March 14, 2288**

The airport came into view and it took a few moments for the night guards to recognize him in the distance. When they saw his dirtied uniform and confirmed his identity, they let him through the entrance and he ambled, exhausted, to the landing pad.

Raucous laughter and taunts drifted from a group of men against one of the walls. Danse’s head pulsed and the pain swelled at their volume. He didn't think peace and quiet was too much to ask this late into the evening but the soldiers were drunk, still celebrating victory, and it infuriated him.

It wasn’t like Bunker Hill had been mutants or ferals. Synths were one thing, but they’d done more than rip through machines. _People_ had died. Flesh and blood and even if he was confused as to whether or not the Railroad had warranted their betrayal, that was nothing to commemorate.

He was far too tired to put up with it, about to bark at them to quiet down and show some damn respect for the dead when he recognized the loudest voice.

Yellowing bruises covered the side of his face, trailing down his neck. They could be from anything but his mind painted its own picture: Nora thrashing, desperate for escape under a body insistent that she stay put. Hands roaming, taking, claiming what they had no right to and what they hadn’t been given permission to. A theft if there ever was one. Worse, because what he’d stolen was irreplaceable and Danse knew he couldn’t fix what the man had broken.

When he met the eyes of Initiate Andrews, he felt waves of revulsion roll over him and he was close, mere feet away from him. Close enough, finally, to release a portion of the malice that he’d been soaking in since she’d told him.

He stormed over and the soldiers scrambled to stand at attention. They watched him nervously, braced for a lecture from the visibly incensed paladin.

He stared down at Andrews, the object of his wrath. He had the gall to smile but it was fraught with nerves, too small to hold all his usual self-assurance. "Paladin. What d’ya need?"

"I wouldn’t talk to your commanding officer that way, off duty or not," he clenched his fist, his whole body tense and looming over Andrews. "I _know_."

The accusation landed and his shoulders fell. He'd expected Nora to die, Danse realized, and for his guilt to die with her. "What?"

The paladin pressed an arm against his chest, kept his voice as low and calm as he could but his eyes burned into him. "I know what you did at Bunker Hill. Are you aware that’s considered a _war_ _crime_ , Andrews?"

"I don’t even know what you’re talking about." 

"No?" He reached into his pocket and flung the holotag at the man.

Andrews caught it against his chest, stared at the metal like he'd hoped never to see it again. Guilty. So fucking guilty that he couldn't even look Danse in the eyes any longer.

"Answer me, soldier," he growled, "and know that I don’t take kindly to liars."

He raised an eyebrow and his lips twitched. "You know what? It’s kind of weird that you’re so worked up about this. Does Elder Maxson know?"

"Watch your tone, Initiate."

"Did I fuck her first?" he jeered. "Is that what this is about?"

In a blind rage, Danse threw him back into the wall. He stumbled and tripped, back hitting the concrete hard and knocking the air from him.

He was on him again in seconds, fist against his jaw. Andrews threw an elbow into Danse’s ribs and landed a lucky punch along nose but the paladin was quick to recover, forcing him to the floor with a knee to the stomach.

It felt like losing control when he’d seen Cutler. Not Cutler. Warped and vile supermutant Cutler. He’d lost his hold on reality, so engulfed by his anger that he'd fired relentlessly and wasted God knows how many bullets on a corpse. He’d had to be pulled away by a fellow soldier before he stopped. That same feeling thudded through him now, disbelief and rage and that all-consuming imperative to set things right.

He swung tirelessly. It wasn’t enough that he broke skin, didn’t satisfy him that he was covered in Andrews’ blood. It took all of the nearby men to rip Danse away from the gory mess that was Initiate Andrews. He could’ve kept going, would’ve killed him and he was still seething as he was yanked back.

"Paladin Danse?"

He deflated immediately. Haylen’s voice put everything back in perspective and he shuddered, horrified. Andrews looked unrecognizable, slumped against the wall, and a scribe rushed to load him into the vertibird.

"What the hell happened?" her soft voice asked urgently.

The soldiers still standing around looked to one another in astonishment, at a loss for words.

"Paladin Danse..."

"They were arguing and then he just... snapped."

Danse ran a hand down his face, groaning at the soreness of his nose. Broken, maybe. There was certainly enough blood for that. He stalked into the airport towards a first-aid kit, the soldiers that had restrained him flinching and carefully maintaining their distance. He felt warmth trickle down his face and he let in drip onto his suit uninterrupted.

"Paladin!" Haylen called after him.

He grabbed a stimpak, not bothering with any of the other supplies, and thrust it into his ribs. At least one had to be cracked. He was going on a personal record for number injuries sustained at once.

"Danse." She stopped just behind him. "Paladin, sir..."

"What is it, Haylen?" he snarled with more ferocity than intended.

She looked crushed by his rebuff but she turned to the first-aid kit and grabbed some cotton and antiseptic. He let her clean his wounds in silence as he calmed himself, clenching and unclenching his fists as waves of anger crashed and receded.

"I heard what he was saying." She swiped gently near his eye, a cleansing sting setting in his skin. "He says that kind of stuff a lot. All the girls are scared of him."

He frowned. "That’s troubling."

She dropped her hand and looked up at him apologetically. "I know it was Nora."

"How do you know that?"

"He was bragging about it earlier in the mess. The asshole." She gritted her teeth and packed the kit back up.

Adrenaline still coursed through him and he would’ve lashed out again if Andrews was near. He felt no remorse, wasn’t sorry in the slightest. He couldn’t be, no matter what his punishment was. Just the _thought_  of what the initiate had done was so grotesque that his stomach churned violently.

"Paladin?" A knight addressed him from the doorway. "Elder Maxson has requested to speak with you."

He took a deep, measured breath and pulled off his bloody gloves. "Understood. Thank you, Knight."

Before he could move past her, Haylen forced him back with a strength he hadn’t known she possessed. "You can’t go to Maxson!"

"I need to face the consequences. Don’t worry about me, soldier."

She shook her head, her words rushed and fervent and her blue eyes pleading. "That’s not what this is about. You have to come with me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blind Betrayal is upon us. If you want a preview, check me out on my Tumblr, followthefreedomtrail9. I posted a snippet of chapter 14, Now More Than Ever.
> 
> xoxo


	14. Now More Than Ever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Railroad HQ gets an unexpected visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alexa, play Run by Daughter.
> 
> xoxo

**March 17, 2288**

Nora slumped, heavy in her chair as she watched Tinker fiddle with the terminal. It was commonplace now to watch the eyes of whoever found themselves in that chair go blank, wiped clean with a mixture of technological savvy and advanced neuroscience. Ordinary but still futuristic, even for her, because she’d been watching it for years but it always held her captive like it first had. The mingling of awe and exhaustion-the damn Med-X in her system-fought for dominance and she yawned as she looked on.

The woman in the chair squirmed under all of the wires and nodes stuck to her. It must be uncomfortable, to say the least; sit still, don’t move, and give up everything you’ve ever known. But her eyes were full of resolve. Not ready, just committed.

When she looked at Nora, she gave the synth a warm smile and the woman sat a little straighter in her seat. Sometimes, they needed the reminder that the Railroad was a friend, even when no one else was. That they cared. That this sacrifice would be worth it.

Losing your memories was one thing. Losing your life was another. Most preferred the former.

"Nora," an agent called, thinly-veiled panic heavy in his voice as he ran from the entrance. She shot him a questioning look and he burst, "it’s Brotherhood."

Brotherhood, but not Danse. It was too soon to be Danse. Maxson or Maxson plus bodyguards, or any number of yes-men that would surely overwhelm their small force. Across the room, Desdemona nodded toward her. Their agreement had been that should the soldiers come, Nora would do the talking while Dez coordinated the evacuation out of the back tunnel. She was poised to give the orders to pack up their operation on Nora's cue and trailed behind her to wait just outside the door while Nora confronted the trespassers.

But it wasn't at all what she'd expected. Whatever she’d imagined would greet her when she made it to the entrance, it wasn’t a single scribe, vaguely familiar and visibly distraught.

Nora lifted her chin, pulling her pistol from her holster, eyes glued to the hallway. There had to be more. There were _always_ more and she wouldn’t be caught off guard again. "What do you want?"

"I-I-I’m not here to..." the woman tripped over her words, "I just need some help."

"How did you find us?"

"I heard someone in Diamond City say to follow the Freedom Trail."

Nora flipped her safety off. "I find it hard to believe the Brotherhood gave you leave for that unless you plan on turning us in. It’s not easy to do."

"They didn’t," she gulped. "I just... I didn’t know who else to go to."

The scribe’s voice was shaky, something like fear in her light eyes, and she was covered in blood. She lacked the ferocity of the others she’d known, certainly not who Maxson would send to attack. But she couldn’t afford not to consider every possibility. She might be a distraction, misdirection for Arthur’s sleight of hand.

"Out with it," Nora demanded, aiming at the woman’s forehead. "Your faction betrayed us and I won’t wait for reinforcements to pour in."

"You’re the one who brought the records back from the Institute, right? Well one of the records of the escaped synths turned out to be Brotherhood. Elder Maxson sent someone out to kill him but... he’s not... I mean, he’s a good man," she blubbered between sobs.

Nora’s blood ran cold and she lowered her weapon a few inches.

Not him. Anyone but him.

"Who?"

"Paladin Danse."

Her pistol fell to the floor, tarnished metal clacking against concrete, fingers weak and nausea filling her empty stomach. For a solitary moment, she was speechless and disbelieving. And then, quickly, she snapped her attention back to Haylen, every synapse firing rapidly as she planned. "Where is he?"

"I... I think I know but he didn't say."

"He didn't... what happened?"

Breathlessly, the scribe recounted Quinlan's analysis of the Institute files, how they’d stumbled upon Danse's picture and compared the DNA: a perfect match. How she'd been among the first to meet him at the airport upon his arrival and inform him of his identity. How she'd urged him to leave before Maxson found him and how he had-but only after motionless minutes ticked by, processing. How she'd conspired with a lancer in a vertibird to drop him off outside of a settlement to the north and how she'd tried to watch where he went as he grew smaller and smaller in the distance. Probably to a bunker, she said, one he'd pointed out as a fallback point when Recon Squad Gladius made its way through the Commonwealth and down to Cambridge.

It wasn't like Nora hadn't taken the same information back to HQ. She hadn't been the one to read it, had relied on Tinker's reports and he'd never  _seen_ Danse, not until the pictures in that report had been scanned over and forgotten. M7-97 hadn't meant a thing to her until now, when it meant everything. It meant her world was collapsing because  _his_ world was collapsing. He was in some godforsaken bunker, alone and stripped of his life's purpose, and no one would be there to keep him from those dark thoughts she knew would come. He didn't come to her-no, he didn't want to be saved but he didn't want to die because if he had, he wouldn't have run. Some part of him no doubt hated himself but some part was still fighting and she could only hope it kept him going long enough for her to find him.

She shouted commands: for Carrington to patch up the scribe, for Tinker to mark the bunker on a map, for Deacon to grab his things and follow her, for Dez and Glory to prepare for an attack should Maxson come looking for his most trusted paladin. And then she was shoving things in her bag and running out of the back tunnels, forging ahead despite the alarming pain in her thigh, Deacon struggling to keep up until she reached the surface and her wounded leg gave out beneath her.

She wanted to break down, craved the liberty to fall apart for once, but there was so little time for that these days and she definitelydidn't have time now. Not with Danse's life hanging in the balance.

"Hey slow down, would ya?" Deacon hunched over, panting. "What are we doing anyway?"

One hand reached up to rub at the headache throbbing at her temple. "Danse is a synth."

For once, her partner had nothing to say. For the best. Nora didn’t want to talk about it anyway. She pushed herself back up and studied the map religiously, tracing a path to the bunker with her fingertip.

"You can't run. You're gonna hurt yourself."

"Well I can't stay here," she snapped. 

He stooped down, back to her, and gestured for her to climb up. "Just tell me where to go, boss."

She lowered the map, caught off guard by Deacon’s easy compliance. He looked as sincere as he ever did with her, if not a bit cheeky. "That's it? You're fine with this?"

He grinned. "I think Danse is better off without these assholes."

That sentiment meant more than anything and nearly drove her to her knees for a second time. Danse had so many more people in his corner than he knew and she was going to remind him of that. She wrapped her legs around Deacon’s waist, still consulting the map as her arms encircled his neck. "You're a good one, Deeks."

"Quiet back there." His hand came over his head to smack her and she dodged him, a phantom smile gracing her lips.

Deacon had a contagious way about him. It calmed her pulse to nothing short of a dull roar in her ears but at least it was _something_. She had no backup plan for what she would do if she didn’t find Danse, heart beat and all, and far too much time to imagine cold bodies and blue lips. He would be the last straw; if she didn’t have him, then the wasteland had lost everything good and it would finally kill her.

Danse had put all of his hope a single loaded word: paladin. And Nora had all of hers wrapped up in him.

*

**March 19, 2288**

She took a moment to admire the feel of the smooth metal under her hand, cool in the balmy afternoon. Behind her, the sky rumbled, an ominous gray, and she knew rain wasn’t far behind. Fitting, for such a gloomy occasion.

She’d left Deacon behind, far enough away to spot any approaching Brotherhood yuppies and get a few good shots in before they found him, but it was as much for security as it was an excuse to go into the bunker alone. It had be her, only Nora, unarmed and level-headed when she found him.

A deep breath and she pulled the handle down and stepped into the bunker. She gave it a once-over: nothing but the wreckage of a protection, a skeleton, and a lone desk. It was hauntingly empty and yet impossibly cavernous for such a small room.

The elevator button flickered and she knew he must’ve taken up underground, down in the depths where he believed people without mothers belonged. As isolated as he thought he deserved. Her heart thrummed painfully the longer it went on wondering over all the ways she could find him.

The elevator sluggishly struggled to the bottom floor. When the doors opened, she was met with two functional protectrons, a single shot searing through the leather arm of her jacket before she put them down alongside a final turret.

She couldn’t help but wonder if he wanted to survive this after all, if he’d realized he didn’t fit the part of the conniving synth from Brotherhood horror stories. The place was sturdy, fortified, guarded and maybe he was trying to protect himself. It was a long shot but it was all she had and the hope of finding him in fewer pieces than she’d imagined was too good to let go.

Those damn orange flight suits were practically neon. She hated all they stood for but right then-she caught the color through a window opposite her and she could have painted the whole bunker that shade out of pure joy. She couldn’t get to it quickly enough, rushing through the maze of concrete and turning into a cheerless, gray room to find him standing near the far wall, a holotape between his fingers.

"Danse?"

He looked up, startled and nearly dropping the tape. He clearly hadn’t expected it to be her who’d found him. His wide eyes were red and exhausted, the brown there less soft than it used to be. Stubble had developed into a short beard and he looked older by years. Still recognizably himself and yet, the most miserable she’d ever seen him. She felt her face fall as her heart stumbled over its beats.

Her eyes flicked to the laser rifle at his side, unholstered and lying on a console. She tried not to think about the plans she’d interrupted but she did and she sucked in like she’d been struck because she _needed_ him here.

"What’s on that?" she nodded at the tape, opting for the least confrontational of the questions brewing.

He cleared his throat and stared down at the plastic like he’d forgotten it was there. "It’s... an explanation."

"An explanation or a goddamn suicide note?"

He sighed through his nose. "Nora, I know you and I don’t see eye to eye on this particular subject." 

"No," she mourned, her words a broken whisper. "Fuck that. Don’t do it."

"I'm a synth, which means I need to be destroyed."

"I know this isn’t easy for you, but _please_. I’m begging you not to." With slow steps towards him, she holstered her gun and read his reaction. He didn’t flinch away, didn’t reach for the rifle suspiciously at his side.

He dropped his eyes to the floor. When he looked back up, he’d buried all of the anguish and only steely resolve was left. "You don’t understand."

The sudden venom in his words cut her down and she was equal parts pain and fury. She recoiled, surprised to feel tears accumulating, that she had any left anymore. "Please don’t do that."

"Synths can't be trusted. Machines were never meant to make their own decisions. They need to be controlled. Technology that's run amok is what brought the entire world to its knees and humanity to the brink of extinction."

He was only reciting what he’d been told, maybe even verbatim. She refused to accept that he believed any of that about himself and she certainly didn't.

"Don’t say that," she begged, wiping at her damp cheeks in frustration. "That’s not you, Danse. Leave with me."

He smiled, minuscule and dark and empty. "And go where?"

"HQ. We’ll make a plan, figure out where to-"

"This isn’t something I can just run away from, Nora."

"Dammit, Danse," she wept, spinning away from him and pacing the anxiety from her system. She halted in place and the seconds ticked by as the tension ratcheted up, peaking just as her fist slammed into the wall. 

The concrete was unyielding. There was no give for her knuckles as they painted the surface a sticky red. She hardly felt it until the throb set in and Danse reached for her reflexively, but he shrunk back just as quickly.

"Stop it," she roared, cradling her hand. "You can touch me, you’re not a damn leper!"

"What is this? What are you doing?"

"I don’t know!" she shouted, breath unsteady with the force of just how much she was feeling. Maybe she wanted him closer, luring him with childish outbursts and raw heartache. Or maybe, she was simply trying to distract him because _God_ , she would do anything if he would just put that fucking gun away. "You and Shaun and- don’t you fucking care that people _need_ you, Danse?"

His face was blank but his gaze was set on her intently as she finally broke. 

"Do you even know how I found you? Your scribe came to us and begged for help. You’re important to... hell, I don’t even know how many people. But as brief as my stay on your steel war balloon was, _I saw it_. That doesn’t just go away because you’re a synth. People _love_ you," she insisted, feeling her voice quiver as realization pierced quick and deep. Her next words were quiet. She said them as soon as she thought them and they were unpracticed now, relics from halcyon days that she’d nearly forgotten how to pronounce. "I... _I_ love you."

"You... love me?" he breathed, disbelief cracking his mask of duty. 

"Of course," she sighed. "And God, I’m so tired of losing things."

If his face was honest, then she’d at least made him reconsider. She knew that he cared about her and had hoped it would be enough to keep him for another day. But the longer he went without answering, the tighter the coil of nerves behind her neck wrapped. 

"Please," she whispered. "Just... just wait, think about this. Come with me."

He glanced down at the holotape in his hand and pushed it into a pocket before taking the rifle carefully, like an armed mine the way he held it. He’d meant to use it to destroy himself, might still, and she flinched back, eyes closed as she waited for a shot to ring out and declare him dead.

It didn’t.

She gradually closed the distance between them and he pulled her into him tightly, too tight for her lungs to expand properly but just enough to tell her her need was reciprocal. Her arms wrapped around his middle and squeezed a tender reassurance, a lifeline, medicine, anything else he might need. When he finally let himself cry and she felt his body shaking under her own, she had to shut her eyes against the moisture forming in them.

She knew how incredibly rare this was. She knew all the things that no one else did, knew Danse inside and out like her favorite book. She’d seen him this way only once before: in Rivet City when he came home and Cutler didn’t. It was the pain of losing the essential that could dismantle a man in seconds. Could reduce him to eat, sleep, breathe quickly and efficiently. She tangled her hand in his hair, forced him closer and this time, he just let her skin on his just be.

He held her for so long that when his grip finally loosened, her ribs ached and prickled as she leaned back to look at him, assessing his mental state. He looked tired, drained, absent. But all of that was better than dead and as he followed her to the elevator, the headache that had plagued her for days ebbed away.

*

**March 21, 2288**

Days worth of Commonwealth grime and muck stubbornly clung to Nora’s skin. She rubbed the wet rag over her arms roughly in a desperate attempt to clean herself and it left her raw and red but she felt cool air against her pores and it was refreshing, calming.

She shed her clothes, stripped down to only her bra and underwear, and polished the rest of her skin until she was satisfied.

When she crunched back to camp, she found Deacon and Danse sitting uncomfortably in the same tense silence that has permeated most of the trip. At her nod, Deacon grabbed his backpack and headed out the way she came for his own makeshift shower.

Danse didn’t look up and he may as well have been a statue for how much he’d moved since they stopped for the night. He was in the same position: sitting on the dirt with his feet planted firmly, his elbows locked around his knees. He wore the same look of intense and faraway consideration. It couldn’t mean anything good.

"Can I sit with you?" she asked shyly. They’d had small interactions since the bunker, mostly his periodic _are_ _you_ _alright_ as he carried her, and even fewer intentional touches. He was avoiding her and she let her despite the way it stung.

"Of course."

She gently lowered herself, euphoric relief to her tired and injured leg. She ran her fingers over the denim covering her wound. The physical kind, mangled skin and torn muscle, but beside her, Danse struggled with the invisible. Worse, she thought, than the physical because her own invisible battles were harrowing.

"Do you have a dinner preference? We have..." she trailed off and rummaged through her bag. "Cram or cram. Your choice."

He offered no smile, no warmth, and she immediately regretted trying to lighten the mood. Her fingers peeled away the lid of the tin and fished for the dull fork she owned, holding both out to Danse.

"No, thank you."

"Please?" she urged. "You haven’t eaten all day. It’s not-"

He cut in angrily. "What makes you think I need to eat?"

"Don’t you think I’d know something about synths? You’ll kill yourself. You’re still flesh and blood."

"I’m machinery."

She swung her leg over his waist and straddled him, a strong hand forcing him to look her in the eyes. "No," she growled.

This close, he radiated an angry heat and his eyes burned with conviction. "You’re blind if you don’t see it."

He believed himself something awful, evil and undeserving of life, goodness, and, she realized, _her_. It was a punch to the gut and he would hurt her, would keep swinging if she got too close.

"I’m not," she insisted, resting her nose beside his.

His hands gripped her arms and gently forced her back. "Don’t be ridiculous, Nora."

"Jesus Christ. You have the market cornered on ridiculous, Danse, don’t worry."

"Do you even understand?" he boomed. "Can you see past your faction for a goddamn minute? I was created by the _Institute._  The same entity that toyed with you in the name of science. Not a week ago, you were gunning down waves of synths-"

"You aren’t a robot, you dense asshole," she cried, bunching up his flightsuit in her fists.

"No, I’m worse than that because I look like a goddamn human! Don’t tell me you’re too brainwashed to see how-"

"Brainwashed?" she repeated, laughing even as tears rolled down her cheeks and she pressed her fists harder into his chest. "Have a little self-awareness, Danse, you’re still talking like a Brotherhood of Steel douchebag."

His hands closed tightly over hers and pried her fingers away from the wrinkled fabric, shoving them against her chest to maintain his distance. "They were right."

"One fucking piece of plastic in your head and you’re worthless, huh?" she twisted in his grasp, jerking until one hand was freed and she could stab a finger into his sternum. "Everything you’ve done and none of it matters to you because you’ve got one extra part? That’s bullshit!"

In an instant, he flipped them so that she was on her back and he, leaning over her, pinning her down. She quieted, wondered if he might press his mouth to hers, kiss and make up, but he only lingered for three breaths to fix her with a venemous state and then he was standing, arms crossed and severe and every bit the soldier still.

"I need... time. To think."

She raised an eyebrow. "About?"

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I don’t know. Everything."

"Think with me," she begged quietly.

"Everything I had, everything I knew, is gone. In the span of a few hours, my identity was ripped from me and my world turned upside-down."

Nora sat up and watched the way his face contorted into something tortured. "Tell me." She pulled herself to her feet and drew closer to him, hating the way the proximity made him tense up.

He dropped his arms and balled his hands into fists, body shaking. "Those sons of bitches who created me couldn't even be bothered to implant memories of having siblings or parents. I don't even know how much of my own past is artificial and how much is real. Can you even imagine that?"

She shook her head and brought a hand up to cup his cheek but he brushed it away, tender but forceful.

"I started out as nothing and I've ended up as nothing. And I don't know what the hell to do about it." He was shouting but she could see how his anger was deflating him, drawing out his breaths more quickly.

"Not nothing," she whispered. "You've _always_ been something."

Deacon returned, slowing as he read the mood and realized he'd interrupted something. Nora waved him over. There wasn't any more to say then. This was a talk that would have to happen many times over before Danse accepted any of her words and she was prepared to fight for him. She had in the bunker and she would a thousand more times before she let anything destroy him.

And Danse, for all of his talk about being an abomination not fit for human companionship, for all of the ways he shoved her away, never protested sleeping beside her, curling into her so that she knew without any words passed between them at all how desperately he needed her, now more than ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well since this is AU, let’s pretend that the Railroad is harder to find and their password isn’t “password”, mkay?
> 
> xoxo


	15. Close to You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danse processes what he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first time I posted this, it didn’t post the full thing. Dunno why. It’s fixed now.
> 
> xoxo

**March 22, 2288**

The last leg of the trip back to HQ, Nora insisted on walking on her own. Danse would never complain about the tightness of his muscles, the hunch of his back induced by carrying her for hours at a time, but she’d felt it and she couldn’t do that to him for another day. When he approached her and offered her usual place on his back, she’d promised him she felt well enough to use her leg. The look of concern in his eyes killed her as he’d asked if she was sure, but she insisted and he acquiesced.  
  
Still, he never strayed more than a few feet from her, especially in combat, casting nervous glances her way every few minutes like she’d disappear if he didn’t. She ached to soothe him and take away that base fear of what he held dear being ripped away from him, but he was far too used to that, and old habits died hard.  
  
They took the back way into the church, sloshing through knee-high water. It was murky, irradiated and foul-smelling, but still safer than leading the entire Commonwealth to their doorstep. She pushed slowly through small waves, maintaining her balance until she stumbled over a rift in the concrete and Danse’s quick reflexes kept her from face-planting.  
  
His arm looped around her waist was the most he’d touched her since ascending from the dark and terrible bunker. While the sun was out, he did little more than watch her, continually searching her like a doctor would his patient. Endless worry in those dark eyes and she didn’t know how he managed to hold it. But touch was new. Good. Progress.  
  
“Thank you.” She looked up at him as she righted herself, saw that her misstep had increased his fretting tenfold, until she smiled and he knew she was alright. Not dead, still here.  
  
“Of course.”  
  
His fingers flexed against her stomach like they wanted to stay there but he pulled them away after only seconds.

  
Nora frowned and brushed it off. She could be patient. She just wanted assurance; to know that _some day_ , things would return to the way they used to be. That Danse would eventually find his way back to her and be solid ground in a quicksand world.  
  
She was surprised to see that the scribe had remained. The woman looked better, positively glowing when she saw Danse trailing behind Nora.  
  
She uttered a surprised cry, a mangled version of his name, and shot across the room to embrace him.  
  
Nora bit her cheek. It was a lot for him to take in, she could tell, but he adapted quicker than she’d anticipated to the sudden and unexpected human contact. He swallowed and dropped a hand to the scribe’s back. He didn’t lean into her or away, face neutral, body taut with unresolved trauma.  
  
She felt a twinge of jealousy, watching him barely hold his scribe. It may not be much, but he hadn’t so much as breathed on Nora in days, save for when they slept. She couldn’t hold him together. Not under the weight of this unusually heavy burden. All she wanted was her Danse, healed and happy, freed from an organization that had bled him dry through the years and then eagerly hunted him down when they got the chance. He couldn’t see the good in his exile. Not yet, maybe not ever, and the scribe was preventing a much needed, clean break.  
  
Nora pulled Desdemona aside. “What is she doing here?”  
  
“Haylen offered us intel in exchange for refuge.”  
  
“Jesus,” Nora groaned, cupping her forehead. “He’s gonna know. We took two of his soldiers. If we weren’t public enemy number one, we are now.”  
  
In the corner of the room, Haylen and Danse shared muted conversation. Whatever she was telling him had his mouth turned down, his face solemn.  
  
“She’s quitting?”  
  
“MIA, as far as the Brotherhood knows.”  
  
“What’s this intel, then?” _Better be good for painting a target on their backs._  
  
“Maxson received a tip that the Railroad was luring his men into a trap. In his eyes, Bunker Hill was a conspiracy between us and the Institute to rid ourselves of a common enemy.”  
  
“So. They really do have an infiltrator then.”  
  
“And it isn’t Danse,” Dez nodded, voice dripping with cynicism.

Tinker pushed away from his place against the wall and stood beside Danse. “So, we doing this?”

Nora gritted her teeth. “Tom.”

He raised his hands defensively. “What?”

Danse wore a blank expression as he glanced between them. “Excuse me?”

The room was still and tense. The sound of a pin dropping would have been enough to shatter her ear drums.

“Nora?” he prompted.

She shook her head, her eyes swimming with sympathy. “He meant… it’s stupid, I know you don’t. He shouldn’t have even _offered_ a mind wipe.” She shot Tom a venemous glare.

Danse’s hardened expression said more than any words could. Of course that wasn’t what he wanted. He may not be Brotherhood any longer but that wound was still fresh and he’d yet to shake the ideology. Her stomach dropped as she considered that he might never fully rid himself of the deeply rooted doctrine. He’d enlisted at a crucial point in his life and given them far too much of himself to allow for regret.

But he’d done the same with her. In their foolish youth, they’d made each other their everything and even now, he seemed to be able to shake her so easily. He looked at her, distrustful of her motives because all he could see was _Railroad._

She was lucky to have convinced him to come back with her at all. A mind wipe would simply be too much and part of her was grateful he was hostile to the idea. If she was the only one left to remember their past, then he’d slipped that much farther away. She’d be no better than a stranger and she didn’t think she could look at him and see that he didn’t know her. Didn’t feel _anything_ toward her. Not even the suspicion she saw now.

“Just…” she she waved her hands dismissively, “everyone. You have things to do. Stop standing around.”

Slowly, the agents made themselves scarce, finding files to look over and weapons to repair. Bunker Hill left them playing catch up and there was plenty to do, but Nora’s motivation to disappear into the room with her terminal had less to do with all of the work she was sure awaited her and more to do with the empty way Danse looked at her since Listening Post Bravo.

*

Underneath the relentless brightness of fluorescent bulbs, Nora squinted to read the terminal entry. A safe house, gutted while she was away, destroyed and filled with dead, with no hint as to the attackers.

She had her suspicions. Who else but Arthur Maxson, sending his message in his usual way?  
  
From the corner of her eye, someone came into view, and she looked up to see Danse in civilian attire. He’d changed into the outfit Deacon had scrounged together for him, the dark colors far less conspicuous than his flight suit.  
  
“Hey,” she offered, a tinge of sadness coloring her voice.  
  
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he shrugged one shoulder apologetically. “I only wanted to inform you I’m turning in for the night.”  
  
_Only._ But not only. His words were a veiled plea that she come with him, please, because he didn’t know how to sleep alone. Didn’t even want to try, despite everything she stood for and all that meant for him—a synth—now.  
  
He hesitated in the doorway and scratched at the back of his neck bashfully. She clicked off the terminal, deciding safe houses and funeral pyres could wait until the morning, utterly relieved that he still wanted this. There would always be more to be done but this moment—she’d be damned if she let it slip through her fingers.  
  
If he needed her, he had her. Simple as that. Some things never change.  
  
The inside of HQ had gone dark and quiet.  A single flashlight illuminated a comic Drummer Boy was reading in the far corner near the entrance, and the only others awake were the guards posted outside by the catacombs.  
  
The unzipping of the sleeping bag was that much louder in the stillness. It felt wrong to disturb it, like any small sound might scare Danse away for good. Nora pulled the zipper quickly to minimize the noise and as it usually went, Danse slid in before she did, her back pressed against his chest, zipping the bag back together in front of her.  
  
She imagined this was somewhat of a comfort to him. They had enough available mattresses with all their recent losses for Danse to sleep more comfortably, but still he chose the Brotherhood-issued, well-worn sleeping bag that he’d known for years.

Maybe, she thought, she was a comfort for the same reason. Familiar reminders of better days.  
  
Her mind was working too much to sleep, even as she felt him relaxing around her. She assumed he was asleep from the steady way his chest heaved against her. She ached to be closer to him than simple bodies touching, to see him, memorize him, so she carefully maneuvered herself to face him, freezing up when she felt his gaze on her through the darkness.  
  
“Sorry,” she mumbled. “Thought you were asleep.”  
  
“It’s alright.”  
  
Her eyes adjusted and she could barely make out the curve of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the dark pools of his eyes against the blackness. He was watching her intently. Thinking so loudly. She thought of ways to calm him until unexpectedly, he reached out first. His hand found her waist and settled on it lightly.

  
She slowly brought her palm to his bicep, spread her fingers over the exposed skin of his arm. It wasn’t smooth. The subtle ridges of scars marked him every few inches.  
  
“Nora.”  
  
“Hmmm?”  
  
He huffed out a breath, impatient with himself and the way he struggled for words. “I’ve been considering your… offer. To erase my memories.”  
  
“Okay,” she swallowed, aiming for a neutral tone.  
  
“...do you think I should?”  
  
“I... that’s up to you. I’ll support whatever decision you make.”  
  
He fell quiet, contemplative at her side. The muscles in his arm flexed as he shifted slightly away. It wasn’t the answer he wanted.  
  
It wasn’t what she wanted to say, either. It was bad enough that Shaun couldn’t remember her. To know that even if she managed to get him back, he’d still have no recollection of all the previous years spent together.  
  
“Danse.” She blindly traced down his arm and back up again, reveling in the warmth he gave off. She forgot, after so many years apart, how much simple touches could hold. All of the infinite longing of innocent skin-to-skin contact. When she continued, her voice was stronger, resolute. He should know how she felt and then he’d decide, and she would just have to live with what he chose. “I don’t want you to. I’m horribly selfish. I don’t want you to forget me. I don’t want to be the only one who remembers Rivet City. But more than all of that, I want you to be okay. Taken care of. I want you to do what you need to do.”  
  
She waited for a reaction, unaware she was holding her breath until her lungs started to burn with deprivation. She released the air in a single, resigned puff and turned halfway back to her original position when Danse’s hand found her jaw and held her.

They could barely see one another, but she could feel his gaze as tangibly as his hand.

“I won’t, then,” he promised fervently.

She nodded and propped herself up on her elbows over him. His fingers brushed gently across her cheek, pushing strands of hair away and tucking them behind her ear. Little, reassuring touches here and there that made her feel like she found some approximation of what they’d left behind.

For the first time since seeing this version of him—older, harder, weary—she felt like they were _just kids_ again. Nothing to keep them apart but the seemingly endless stretches of time he spent away before coming home to her, whole and happy. She’d thought that was hard, but it hadn’t been. Not compared to all that would come after.  
  
Suddenly, she missed it more than she could bear. Needed to regain the lost, uncomplicated way they’d been. She dropped a hand to his chest and traced his ribs lightly through the cotton of his shirt. He shuddered, subtle but she caught it.

“Will you kiss me now?” she whispered.

His eyes fell to her lips, parted in expectation. He brought his thumb to the curve of her bottom lip and stroked gently, lovingly. It had been so long since he’d touched her out of anything but necessity and even longer since they’d touched _like this_.

  
“Danse. I miss you.”  
  
He groaned and guided her mouth to his. His lips moved slow and timid against hers, restrained. She pulled back sooner than she desired, not wanting to push him, but when his fingers flexed possessively against the small of her back, she lowered herself back onto him, feeling their body heat collect between them.

It didn’t take many soft and slow kisses until he was barely containing himself, shaky and breathing heavily under her hands the way she remembered. He’d always been that way—boiling over so easily at her fingertips. It sparked her more than she thought it would.

The moment she slid her tongue over his teeth, he lost every shred of control. She pulled away and left an inch between them only for him to close the distance and capture her lip between his teeth. One of his hands, wrapped tightly in her hair, pulled her closer, deeper into him. For a feverish moment, she indulged him. Her fingers danced at the hem of his shirt, just barely slipping under and feeling his hips buck in response.

The stirring of someone sleeping nearby shocked them apart and out of their stupor. An embarrassed flush spread over her cheeks as she steadied her breathing, rolling over onto her back and staring up at the ceiling. She felt the slowing rise and fall of his chest under and beside her, the sleeping bag too small to allow for any more separation.

It was almost funny, the full circle they seemed to travel in. From kids in love, fooling around and careless, to too-serious heartbroken adults, and back again.

She couldn’t pretend she felt any less for him than she did. Even if he didn’t say it back, even as her eyelids grew heavier and the full weight of her exhaustion hit her like a train, he deserved to know just how highly she thought of him. “Danse?”

“Yeah?”

“I... mm, love you.”

He sighed, small and content. “I love you, Nora.”


	16. Salt in the Wound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nora finally has a breakdown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nora, my girl, you deserve a good breakdown right about now.
> 
> Sooo in light of the Tumblr shit storm recently, I thought long and hard about the words I used to describe Maxson and I need to say a few things. First, I love Maxson. With all of my heart. You don’t have to agree but I believe he’s doing the best he can with what he knows and how he grew up and I don’t buy that he’s evil. Second, this chapter, like many others, is Nora’s perspective. She’s high up in the Railroad so she’s pretty biased. She, as a character, won’t always understand Maxson the way she thinks she does. That’s just the way I’ve written them.
> 
> With that preamble out of the way, please don’t use my *non-canon work* to hate Maxson, a character I find very sympathetic. You don’t have to like him but I don’t want my work to be used so someone can hate him more than they already do. He’s a powerful man with a rough exterior that wants a better future and has some misguided ideas about how to achieve that.
> 
> Whatever our differences, we all love Danse so let's just focus on our beautiful ex-paladin cinnamon roll.
> 
> That's my piece. Ad Victoriam.
> 
> xoxo

**March 23, 2288**

Morning bled into afternoon quickly, the whole of HQ in a chaotic scramble. There was a ridiculous amount of work to be done and a very limited amount of agents and resources to be allocated towards it all. Deacon and Glory had their hands full redirecting and delegating in an attempt to handle the number of packages flowing in and out. What once was manageable had suddenly become overwhelming, but just because the Railroad had lost an ally and buried most of their own people didn’t mean they were out of the fight.

The Institute still had it coming, and now it was more of a race than anything. The Brotherhood of Steel had all of the same intel as they did, knew of the tunnels carved out beneath the earth that could lead them straight into the heart of the Institute. There were still countless synth lives depending on the Railroad breaking in first and Desdemona designated it priority number one. She’d had Nora, Danse, and Carrington locked in a room with her for hours, planning and prepping until a dull headache bloomed behind Nora’s eyes.

In the end, they could only hope that Danse’s exile had kept the Brotherhood distracted or, God willing, even set them back. It was a weakness Desdemona was hoping to exploit.

Secret weapon, indeed.

The redhead let out a full, nicotine-laced breath before turning to Danse. “How long do we have?”

“I don’t know.”

“But he will come?” Carrington pressed.

“It’s probable.”

“Perhaps we should consider a preemptive strike, then.”

Nora dropped her head into her hands. “Jesus, Carrington.”

“It’s a move we should consider,” he continued coldly. “We don’t have the resources to protect ourselves should–”

“We aren’t. Them,” she spat.

“We should weigh our options, Nora,” Dez offered. “We don’t have many.”

The callousness with which she said it was entirely uncharacteristic. Desdemona had always felt maternal to her. Warm and welcoming and protective of her own. But this–this was too far and Danse’s body was rigid beside her, glare trained on a mug on the table like he could shatter it with a look.

“What the hell is _wrong_ with you? There are _children_ up there!”

Carrington huffed. “Future Brotherhood soldiers.”

She slammed her fist on the table of front of him. “The answer is _no_ and so help me, if you do _anything_ behind my back–”

“Nora.”

All eyes turned to the doorway to see Glory, visibly shaken. That in and of itself was enough to tell Nora what was happening.

She’d just thought they’d had more time.

She paused only a moment, frozen in her place. She glanced briefly at Carrington and Desdemona, their expressions hard and tired, and then she was taking long strides toward the entrance in the midst of the shuffle of agents around her packing anything and everything of value into duffels.

This time was no drill. There was no scribe at the entrance to greet her, no pitiful wasteland recruits that had stumbled across the city to join the cause.

Just more Brotherhood, and this time in full armor, with who else at their helm but the elder himself.

Arthur Maxson, in all of his confident authority and unnerving scrutiny. He held his shoulders back and looked her over, checking for weaknesses. This wasn’t the Arthur she was used to, but this colder side of him wasn’t altogether foreign. A tactician to his core, he was everything that war hadn’t stripped from him. Cautious, self-preserving, clay in the hands of whoever had raised him. She imagined they’d be proud at the dark satisfaction in his eyes when he noticed the fear in hers before she could stuff it away.

“Elder,” she curtsied, an unabashed jab at his royal bloodline. “You know, it’s generally considered bad manners to come knocking on someone’s door with an armed guard.”

His nostrils flared. No room for levity, then.

“I won’t barter with you, Nora. I demand extradition of the synth in your custody known as M7-97.”

“Who?”

“Former Paladin Danse,” he ground out unwillingly.

“Ah. Can’t. Don’t have him,” she bluffed.

His blue eyes blazed brightly, unconvinced. “I find that difficult to believe, given how close the two of you are and the line of work you’re in.”

 _Close._ He spat the word out like expired rations, and she scoffed. “And why is it, exactly, you seem to believe we’re somehow close?”

“Don’t play dumb, Nora. It doesn’t suit you.” His furrowed brow cast a dark shadow over his eyes and she could see that whatever he’d found, he was now doubtless. “The Citadel scribes keep excellent records,” he added, and if she hadn’t been sure of what he’d seen before, she was now.

Almost every soldier had someone that needed to know when they succumbed to war. Once upon a time, she was the only name in Danse’s file, complete with a Rivet City address and maybe even a picture, for all she knew–before Maxson’s time and far enough in the past that even she had nearly forgotten. Buried, certainly, but he’d been digging.

She turned her face away until the sense of dread in her gut abated. This was wrong. Not how it was supposed to be. He wasn’t supposed to know so much, or open old wounds. He was unflinching in the face of her feigned ignorance and that could only mean he’d prepared for a single outcome: Danse’s holotags in his fist, one way or another.

She channeled Deacon, composed herself so that he would only see a self-assured mask when she grew brave enough to face him again. He could prod all he wanted but the admission wouldn’t come. “Best of luck in your search, Elder. You won’t find him here.”

“I had hoped to do this the easy way,” he sighed, rocking back on his heels.

“And I had hoped Bunker Hill would’ve been different. Seems we don’t always get what we want.”

“That was different. I was informed–”

“You were informed _wrong_. We would _never_ –” she choked on the rest, wishing with everything in her that she could change what had happened. The death toll, the scars where stairs had pressed into her spine. “Check your ranks, Arthur. Danse isn’t who you should be concerned about.”

He widened his stance, feet firmly in place in the way Arthur had always shown dominance. A man who bends to no one, whose bidding is so often done by his underlings that she’d hardly expected to see him muddy his boots just to confront her.

“Why does this even really matter?”

He clenched his fists at his side. “This is your last chance, Nora. Don’t make me do this.”

“Go home,” she said evenly. “Danse isn’t here.”

A heavy remorse settled over his features. He made a circling motion with one hand and the armored soldier with him nodded as they turned to leave.

The signal was immediately apparent to Nora and her breath caught painfully in her throat, scraping as it came out in a hoarse growl.

“You _wouldn’t._ ”

Maxson’s steps faltered. He wasn’t without a conscience; he had empathy for humans–the sort that resembled himself, at least–but it just wasn’t enough. He’d made up his mind long ago. There was nothing he’d spare in his determination to make an example of his so-called traitor. The Commonwealth was cannon fodder. A chessboard in his match against the Institute.

As long as Danse was at large, his leadership was in question. She understood as much as any leader could. But it didn’t have to end in a cleansing fire.

As soon as he’d rounded the corner and disappeared from her line of sight, she rushed back into HQ to find it empty, Deacon and Danse the only stragglers.

“Run!”

Deacon raised a nervous eyebrow. “Why? What–”

“Just _move,_ dammit!” she cried, pushing him toward the tunnels and bolting after him.

It felt dreamlike, the way the water slowed her down. Frustrating resistance against her shins as she pushed forward, praying they could put enough distance between the church and themselves before Maxson turned it to ash.

His ideology was toxic. He would sooner destroy than create, diametrically opposed to all the Railroad stood for. Second chances. Rebirth. Hope. Mercy was a kindness he couldn’t afford to offer to synths and, as the leader of the strongest faction in the wasteland, he saw fit to dole out judgement where his hand was forced by the ghosts of all the elders before him.

When she pushed past the door, she forced herself as fast as she could, but she knew it wouldn’t be enough. The high-pitched scream of a mini-nuke pierced the air, a threatening whistle that set Nora’s blood on fire. She clamped her eyes shut in horror. HQ was her home. One of the few places she’d felt safe, soon to be a pile of rubble.

Danse threw her over his shoulder, breathing in the quick, measured spurts of a well-trained soldier as they put as much distance as possible between themselves and ground zero. When the whistle blossomed into a rumble, when the nuke collided with the roof of the church, her eyes flew open in time to catch the building disappear in a cloud of smoke.

He threw them down, her back thumping down hard against the dirt, knocking her breathless as his strong hand forced her face into his neck. His body covered hers, large enough to take a majority of the shrapnel flung through the air on himself. He grunted as pieces of brick and wood dug into his skin.

She shook under him, hot tears falling down the sides of her face. Too confining, too warm, too much like _that other man_ over her. Her breaths came quicker and quicker and she squirmed beneath him, trying to push him away, but he was unmovable.

As the air stilled around them, she dug the heels of her palms into her eyes. Telling herself it was alright, it was Danse, for God’s sake. He would never endanger her and certainly never do _that_ , but this close to her, it all started to blur together. She shoved against his shoulders, his torso, everywhere to get away.

“Let _go,_ ” she insisted, beating against his back.

If she’d tried harder that night, done it differently, said the right thing–

“Get–just get _off of me_.”

Danse grunted as her knee collided with his stomach and he rolled to the side. She scrambled to her feet, still taking in far too much air, hands clutching her middle.

It had been easy to lose herself in Danse’s turmoil. To become a caretaker was second nature, especially without Shaun around. It kept her busy, at least. Distracted. She hadn’t realized how deep this wound had gone until now, seeing the one man who would never harm her keeled over because she couldn’t separate past from present.

He rose to one knee and then struggled to his feet. He avoided eye contact at first while they both caught their breath but when he did look at her, the look of confusion he wore cracked her wide open.

“I’m sorry,” she croaked. She couldn’t see him that way if she wanted to keep it together. Falling apart out in the open was hardly wise. She bit her lip and turned away from him only for her eyes to land on the pile of dust that had been HQ.

It was her breaking point. The final straw that snapped her tenuous grip on her own sanity.

She cradled her head in her hands. A defeated sob escaped and then the floodgates opened. Her knees buckled beneath her, sending her back onto the cracked pavement, and she was powerless to stop the grief that came, a rip current throwing her around like a rag doll.

They were back to almost nothing. The Railroad was quickly running out of options for safe places to operate from, ones that were secure enough to set agents and synths alike at ease. Just _one place_ where they weren’t hunted down.

Danse took careful steps towards her and knelt beside her. Eventually, he placed a gentle hand at her back, just to remind her he was there, to be close in some way that didn’t make her nauseous.

She cried herself dry and then, she could think. The haze of loss–Shaun, trust, home–had obscured more than she’d realized but she finally felt clear. Able to be the leader she needed to be. What mattered now was regrouping. Not mourning the rubble behind her. It didn’t matter how many memories it held–

“Nora!”

Deacon found them just as she gained her balance enough to stand on her own again. Danse followed behind her and she could feel his puzzled gaze on her back as Deacon guided them back nearly a mile into an alley to the handful of others that now made up the Commonwealth chapter of the Railroad.

A sorry bunch, she thought. All ragged and filthy and now, homeless.

Haylen rushed up to Danse, panic in her voice. “Are you injured, sir?” She checked him over, likely routine from their days in Squad Gladius, even though she couldn’t have had much in the way medical supplies on her.

“Negative.” Her face fell as he gently brushed her fluttering hands away, still focused solely on Nora with those perplexed brown eyes. She was glad when Deacon’s form at her shoulder blocked him from view.

She owed him an explanation– _it’s not you, it’s me–_ but not here. Not now, when she’d only just realized how completely ruined she was. Maybe not what he wanted at all, and certainly less than he deserved.

“So, what now?” someone asked.

They all looked to Desdemona, downtrodden and seeking. Hope, mostly, in the form of a plan, but shelter was a close second. Anything to remind them all was not lost.

Dez and Nora exchanged a single glance. They _did_ have a backup plan but they’d hoped they’d never have to use it.

_So much for hope._

“Hancock has always had our back,” Dez stated with an infectious calm. “We reconvene in the statehouse. Goodneighbor will be our new home, for the time being.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for bearing with me, guys. My life has been... eh. A lot has happened. Some awful things, some great things. But I'm still hard at work on this and I'm not about to stop.
> 
> xoxo


End file.
